


The Whitechapel Martyrs

by oldtrustylegs



Category: Whitechapel (TV)
Genre: Drama, F/M, Mystery, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-26
Updated: 2017-02-07
Packaged: 2018-08-11 02:21:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 36,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7872202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oldtrustylegs/pseuds/oldtrustylegs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The gruesome murder of a priest leads the detectives of Whitechapel in another search through the historical record and leads DI Joseph Chandler to reconsider his personal life in the wake of Morgan Lamb's death. Rated M, Chandler/OC.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 27 October

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Whitechapel story. I don’t have much in the way of preliminary remarks. For the purposes of this story, I’ve made Buchan Catholic. It is not incredibly important, but in case he says otherwise in the show, then just know that I’ve made that change myself. As far as I can remember, he mentions that he went to see his mother sing in a choir at her church in the second episode of the first series, but he doesn’t elaborate more than that. It’s not a terribly important point, but one I wanted to preemptively explain in case I missed the official line.
> 
> I hope you enjoy the story and please review no matter the case!

He was absolutely gorgeous, there was certainly no denying that.  There was something off about him, though.  She watched as he fiddled with his tie, smoothed his waistcoat, and ran his hand over his hair in quick succession.  And then proceeded to do it again.  Maybe it was a nervous habit.  He took a small jar out of his pocket, dipped a finger in it, and rubbed something on his temples.  He seemed to calm after that.  Odd man. 

He was turning toward her now.  Introducing himself.  She tried to not look like she’d just sized him up and found him so very strange.  That would probably only make him more nervous.  She shuddered to think what that would look like. 

“I am DI Chandler, this is DS Miles,” he said in what she had to admit was a terribly pleasant voice.  He gestured to the older man standing next to him and then extended his hand.  

She shook it obligingly and gave him a tight smile.  She was not expecting to receive good news. 

“You are Ms. Parker, correct?” 

She nodded. 

“Doctor, actually, but it doesn’t matter.  Emma, please,” she answered. 

“You are a doctor and a secretary?” 

“Second in command is probably a better way to describe it.  Not a medical doctor, though.  I have a D.Phil.  I am Monsignor Garnet’s assistant.  I’ve been holding the fort since he disappeared.”  She stopped speaking abruptly.  She knew she was rambling, trying to delay the inevitable. 

Chandler nodded his understanding and looked to Miles before turning back to her. 

“Would you mind following me?” Chandler asked, turning to gesture toward what Emma presumed to be his office. 

“Of course,” she said softly, following the pair of detectives through the rows of desks. 

“Please have a seat,” said Chandler as he closed the door.  Miles remained standing while he sat behind his desk.  “I need you to identify something for me.” 

“Anything,” Emma said immediately, beginning to hope that they may have found her boss. 

Chandler pulled a plastic evidence bag out of a box on the floor next to his chair.  He placed it on the desk and slid it toward her. 

“Do you recognize this?” 

Emma picked up the bag and studied the item inside.  

“This is Monsignor Garnet’s pocket watch,” she said slowly, recognizing the distinctive timepiece.  “Where did you find it?” 

“With…the body,” Chandler answered, almost reluctantly. 

There was a kind of muffled ringing in her ears. 

“Wh – erm – wh –,” her shallow breaths were making it hard to speak.  “What body?” 

“I am sorry to have to tell you that Monsignor Garnet has been killed,” Chandler explained. 

Emma shook her head. 

“What do you mean ‘been killed’?  Someone – you mean – he was _murdered_?” 

Chandler nodded.  Emma sat in silence for a moment, trying to gather her thoughts. 

“Has, um – has the archbishop been told?  He should have been told before me.” 

“Not yet,” Chandler answered carefully.  “You filed the missing persons report and we couldn’t find any family.” 

Emma nodded absentmindedly.  The priest’s family was virtually non-existent.  His parents were long dead and his older brother had recently died after a long battle with cancer.  No other siblings and no nieces or nephews.  Little wonder, then, that he and Emma had been so close.  He had no one else. 

“What happened to him?  Was it a mugging gone wrong?”  She wasn’t intimately acquainted with the Whitechapel area, but could not be ignorant of its reputation. 

Chandler looked again to Miles. 

“Difficult to say,” the older man spoke for the first time.  Clearly he was the native. 

“What do you mean, difficult to say?” Emma almost demanded, the pitch of her voice climbing.  “You found him!  How you can say he was murdered if you have no idea how he died?” 

“Well, that is to say, we have _some_ idea,” Chandler insisted quietly, trying to defuse Emma’s temper.  She supposed it was something they dealt with every day.  “It isn’t – it isn’t very pleasant.” 

“Is there a particularly pleasant way to be murdered?” Emma countered. 

Chandler folded his hands on his desk, resisting the urge to engage her anger. 

Emma angrily wiped away a tear.  She knew the grieving was inevitable, but she needed to hold it off until she found out what happened. 

“She’ll find out from the papers anyway,” Miles said to Chandler, who cleared his throat and nodded. 

“It appears that he was – ah – dismembered.” 

Emma’s vision swam before her eyes.  She rather wished she hadn’t asked at all.  The tears were falling thick and fast now and as she sniffed, a handkerchief appeared before her eyes.  She looked up to find Chandler leaning over his desk to hand it to her. 

“Thank you,” she said thickly, gratefully taking the piece of white cloth.  She dabbed at her eyes and cheeks, vaguely hoping her mascara hadn’t run down her face.  It was a stupid thing to think at such a time and she chastised herself for it. 

Chandler watched the young woman compose herself.  He’d had to take a moment himself after his preliminary investigation.  The crime scene had been brutal, even by Whitechapel standards.  The four pieces of the body, which themselves had been mutilated, in addition to the head had been distributed throughout the churchyard.  It was only by luck that they had collected everything before something vital had been carried off by scavengers.  They hadn’t known the man was a priest before connecting him to the description provided by Emma.  They still didn’t know if it was relevant.  Given his position and the highly unusual manner of death, it seemed unlikely that it wasn’t. 

“Is there anything you need from me?  Any questions you need to ask?” Emma asked finally, placing the handkerchief on the corner of Chandler’s desk. 

“Do you know anyone who would want to harm Monsignor Garnet?” 

Emma shook her head forcefully. 

“No,” she said insistently.  “I mean, there were minor tiffs in the journals, but what scholar doesn’t have those?” 

“The journals?” Miles asked. 

“Oh, um, academic journals, I mean,” she explained. “He was the director of the Liturgy Office.  He published regularly in theology journals.  The kinds of people who publish in those will certainly trade insults, but they’re almost always based in some kind of valid criticism and it’s generally never more than sarcastic remarks in a footnote.  There was never anything personal.  He was well-liked.” 

“Would he have had business in Whitechapel?” 

“We had business all over the diocese.  The Liturgy Office is in charge of worship for the entire country.  I would have to check his diary to see if he had anything particular here.  His personal assistant usually kept track of that.” 

“I thought you were his assistant,” said Miles, taking the seat next to hers. 

“Not really,” she said.  “I am one of two assistant directors, so I fulfill a lot of the same responsibilities as he does.  There are just too many requests for training and resources and he can’t do it all himself.” 

Emma paused for a moment. 

“ _Did_ , I should say,” she muttered, once more reminded of the terrible reality. 

She was stirred from her reverie when Chandler moved suddenly, reaching his hand into his jacket. 

“I’m going to give you my card,” he explained as he began to write on the back.  “My mobile number is on the back if you remember anything else.  You may want to warn his secretary that we’ll be wanting a word.” 

“Of course,” replied Emma, sliding the card into her wallet.  She rose from her seat.  “Is there anything else?” 

Chandler shook his head and stepped around his desk and moved to open the door for her.  She nodded her thanks and walked rather quickly toward the main door.  She wasn’t sorry to be leaving.  Before either he or Miles could deflect her attention away from the whiteboard at the end of the room, Emma had already stopped in her tracks.  She was horrified at the photos of the crime scenes, bloody limbs and all, taped underneath the neatly printed name: WILLIAM GARNET.  She slowly approached the board, her fingers lightly touching the photo the medical examiner had taken of his face, the bloody stump that was left of his neck carefully cropped out. 

“What did they do to him?” Emma whispered, her hand over her mouth. 

“You don’t want to be looking at these,” said Miles, gently, but forcefully, guiding her out of the room. 

She looked to Miles and then back to Chandler. 

“What did they do to him?” She asked again, more insistent.  “God, it looks like he was drawn and quartered.” 

Chandler’s eyes took on a glint of interest.  Miles never liked it when he got that look. 

“What did you say?” 

“His body – it wasn’t just dismembered,” she said, swallowing the bile.  “He was disemboweled _and_ quartered.  I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that it was the prescribed execution for those convicted of treason through the nineteenth century.  It’s what they did to the English martyrs.” 

Emma let herself slide willingly into her historian voice; anything to distance herself from the present. 

“Who are the English martyrs?” Chandler asked, genuinely interested now.  Perhaps this was their precedent? 

Miles heaved a sigh.  Emma heard him mutter something about never introducing her to someone named Buchan.  She turned her attention back to the eager man in front of her.  Ignoring reality really was for the best, she decided, as she realized once again how very attractive DI Chandler was. 

“They were mostly priests and religious who were hanged, drawn, and quartered for high treason throughout the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries,” Emma explained.  “Forty have been canonized, but there are about a hundred and fifty more who have been either formally beatified or whose venerations are approved.” 

“Forty?” Chandler asked, sounding vaguely worried.  Before Emma could question him, he spoke again.  “Do you have a card I could have?  In case I need to contact you again and don’t have the file readily available.” 

“Yes, of course,” said Emma, reaching into her bag for her card case.  She pulled out a pen and scribbled a number on the back.  “And my mobile, as well.” 

“Thank you.” 

“Yes, well, I should be getting back.  I need to tell the archbishop what’s happened,” Emma said with a sigh. 

“I will be in touch,” said Chandler, already turning back toward the squad room.  He looked back to see that Emma was already half way down the stairs.  He certainly didn’t blame her for wanting to put distance between herself and this place. 

“And what kind of historical copycat have we got now?” Miles asked with a long suffering sigh. 

“I am not looking for copycats, Miles,” answered Chandler wearily.  He really needed to do something about that reputation.  “I need to talk to Dr. Llewellyn.  There is a chance she missed something in the autopsy.” 

Chandler walked back to his office to grab his watch and phone before heading back out toward the staircase down to the medical examiner’s office. 

“Kent,” Chandler called upon reaching the squad room door.  “Phone Ed and tell him to put together all the information he can on the English martyrs.” 

“Sir?” Kent asked, though his hand already was on the phone’s receiver.  The young man was loyal almost to a fault. 

Chandler shook his head.  Buchan would know what he meant, no use wasting time explaining something he knew nothing about.  He’d only half understood Emma’s explanation, but the number forty had certainly caught his attention. 

Caroline Llewellyn was never short of work as a medical examiner in Whitechapel.  But even with everything she’d seen, the remains of William Garnet remained to be among the worst.  She had spent two days on the report and still had not been able to come to a conclusion for cause of death.  Too much had been done to the body to determine with any certainty what had finally finished the poor man off. 

“Caroline, darlin’, how’re you doing?” Miles said as he entered autopsy, Chandler following just behind. 

“If you’re coming for answers, Ray, I don’t have any yet,” she said with a sigh. 

“Did you happen to notice any ligature marks on his neck?” Chandler asked without greeting, focused as he was on trying to avert his eyes from the remains without anyone noticing he was doing so.  

“There isn’t much left of it thanks to the multiple blows of the axe used to decapitate him, but I can have another look,” said Llewellyn, pulling on a pair of rubber gloves. 

She and Ray leaned over to examine the head while Chandler remained rooted near the door.  He stood with his hands tightly clasped behind his back, resisting the urge to fiddle with his cufflinks.  Though he had tried to continue to wear the rubber band Morgan had given him before she was killed, its efficacy had been destroyed upon her death.  Rather than reminding him to step back from his control issues, it simply reminded him of her and how her death had happened in his own station while she was under his protection.  If anything, it had come to symbolize what happened when he relinquished control.  He certainly didn’t need any reminders of that. 

“I think there might be something here,” Llewellyn said, pulling Chandler out of his morose memories. 

“The woman who reported him missing said it looked like he’d been drawn and quartered,” Chandler explained.  “Does that fit the evidence?” 

Llewellyn looked pensive for a moment before returning her attention to the remains. 

“It would certainly explain the mutilation,” she said, gesturing to the torso.  “At first glance, it just looks like gutting, but drawing is specifically emasculation and disemboweling.  It would have occurred while he was still alive.” 

Chandler gaped at her.  Llewellyn nodded back at the unspoken question. 

“The lack of severe ligature marks around the neck suggests that he was not hung for very long, which fits the pattern.  A person was hanged and then cut down before dead, emasculated and disemboweled while still alive, and only then were they beheaded before being quartered.” 

Miles spoke first. 

“Emasculated?” He asked, sounding like he didn’t really want to know the specifics. 

“In contrast to castration, emasculation is the complete removal of the genitals,” said Llewellyn.  “Which is what we have in this case.” 

“Could he have been a paedo?” Miles asked Chandler.  “Maybe it was revenge.” 

Chandler shook his head. 

“I don’t think so,” he said thoughtfully.  “Emma said this manner of death was reserved for those convicted of high treason.  If it had been sexually motivated, the killer likely would have only emasculated him, rather than go through the whole process of hanging, drawing, and quartering.  But we’ll look into it.  It wouldn’t be the first time a killer tried to hide their primary motivations in other methods.” 

“Emma, is it?” Miles joked.  Of course he would latch onto that. 

Chandler grimaced at him. 

“It’s what she told us to call her,” he said sourly.  The woman was certainly attractive, but his track record spoke for itself.  No use courting trouble when plenty found him on its own initiative.  “Thanks, Caroline.” 

“I should be thanking you,” said Llewellyn with a laugh.  “I’ll be able to finish this report now.” 

Kent met Chandler and Miles on the main landing, Buchan in tow. 

“I don’t have any modern case history for you, Joe, but there are descriptions of this type of execution in the archive,” Buchan stated without preamble, for once.  “There are also descriptions of the martyrs themselves, though it is primarily in religious literature.” 

“Shall we?” Chandler asked, already turning around to go back down the stairs. 

“Oh yes, of course,” said Buchan, hurrying to catch up. 

Chandler stopped and turned to look back at Miles and Kent. 

“Miles,” said Chandler.  “Look into Garnet’s background.  Just to rule out…anything.” 

Miles nodded, wisely remaining silent on the matter.  Chandler didn’t want to get any rumors started if there was nothing in the victim’s past to warrant it.  The press would run with the story like an untrained dog if they detected even the mere suggestion of it. 

“Am I to understand that the young woman who came in today is Dr. Emma Parker?” Buchan asked almost breathlessly as they descended the stairs to the basement. 

Chandler stopped and glanced sideways at Buchan, who looked almost sheepish in response. 

“Dr. Parker did a talk at my mother’s church,” he explained quickly.  “She is quite something.” 

Chandler gave a non-committal hum in response and resumed the descent.  He didn’t particularly want to hear her praises sung.  Not that he had anything against the woman, but he remembered what had happened after he’d done the same to Morgan. 

“Yes,” Buchan continued, oblivious to Chandler’s discomfort.  “It was on religious practices in the Restoration period.  Fascinating, of course, what with Charles II’s close association with Catholics and Parliament’s continued refusal to even consider toleration legislation.” 

Against his better judgment, he was interested. 

“I thought she worked in the Liturgy Office,” he said, remembering clearly that she’d said she was the assistant director.  He still wasn’t quite sure what the Liturgy Office did, but he was sure that was what she’d said. 

“Yes, yes she does,” Buchan said with an enthusiastic nod.  “She’s also interested in history, so she often combines the two.  Very sharp.” 

_“Often?”_

Buchan again looked slightly embarrassed. 

“I may have read an article or two she’s written.  Gone to a few talks,” he said, cheeks red. 

Could it be possible?  Did Buchan have a crush?  Chandler didn’t tease him, though.  That was one thing that certainly united the two men.  Both were too easily embarrassed, especially when it came to such things as women.  Chandler knew the public perception of the hyper-masculine world of the police force, and knew that to a certain extent it was true; especially in East London.  But he had never been able to join in on the boasting and graphic stories of sexual prowess.  Thankfully, those who worked closest with him were either men like Buchan and Kent, who seemed to have no such stories, or Miles and Mansell, who knew him well enough to not do it in front of him. 

“Well,” Buchan said, clearing his throat.  He was more comfortable back in his archive.  “As to the martyrs.  She said there were forty, correct?” 

Chandler nodded. 

“She said forty were canonized,” Chandler clarified, not entirely sure what the difference was.  He knew it meant they were saints, but any more than that was unclear. 

“Yes, she would make that distinction,” Buchan replied, sounding almost smug on her behalf.  “There were, overall, more than three times as many as that who were killed in the period we’re talking about, but not all have become saints.” 

“She said the others were – em – beatified.”  Chandler knew even less about what that meant. 

“Beatification is the step before canonization,” Buchan explained.  “And others still have had their veneration approved, but have not been beatified.  By that, it means that places – usually shrines or locations significant in the martyrs’ lives – where there is an established practice of veneration receives official approval for continued veneration.  To put it simply, it means that the Church recognizes the importance of the martyr to the local community, even though sainthood is not on the table.” 

“How does all of this apply to our case?” 

“I think you will find it interesting that our victim shares a surname with one of the canonized forty,” Buchan began in that storytelling voice he was so fond of.  “Father Thomas Garnet was a Jesuit priest, the nephew of the Jesuit superior, Henry Garnet.  Young Thomas had quite an adventurous life during his education and early days as a priest.  He was captured once while trying to cross the Channel from Calais to England, imprisoned, and subsequently released.  Shortly after the Gunpowder Plot, he was again arrested.  This time, he was tortured for information about his uncle, who was so centrally implicated in the treason and who was eventually executed for his supposed participation.  After more than half a year in the Tower, he was exiled to Flanders.” 

Buchan was so thoroughly involved in the narrative now that he likely would have continued even if Chandler had left the room. 

“But did he stay away?  Oh no, not our young Thomas.  He returned to England a year later, but his freedom on English soil did not last long.  Not six weeks after his return, he was arrested by an apostate priest.  Father Garnet was offered the choice of taking the Oath of Allegiance to King James I or execution.  I am sure, Joe, you can guess which he chose.” 

Chandler raised an eyebrow at his archivist, but remained silent.  Buchan had a tendency to get annoyed if people actually answered his rhetorical questions. 

“Father Garnet, aged just 32, was put to death at Tyburn in 1608 for high treason.  Hanged, drawn, and quartered; just like our own Monsignor Garnet,” Buchan finally finished.  “I might also add that the date on which Monsignor Garnet was murdered, the twenty-fifth of October, is the feast day of the English martyrs.” 

“Are there any other significant dates for these martyrs?” Chandler asked. 

Buchan shook his head. 

“Not in the coming weeks, at least,” he said.  “The next memorial day in the calendar is the first of December.  Other than that, there may be individual anniversaries of executions, but nothing that is officially celebrated.” 

“Okay,” said Chandler, only slightly relieved.  “Put together a list of all the dates you can find.  And find out if _our_ Garnet is in any way related to the original.  If any of the other martyrs have descendants who are Catholic, it would be good to know.” 

“I am on the case, Joe,” said Buchan dutifully.  He looked apprehensive for a moment.  “Um, Joe, if Dr. Parker comes back in, could you…” 

Chandler smiled. 

“I will be sure to bring her down here.” 

Buchan smiled back broadly and very nearly skipped back to his desk.  There was certainly a bounce there. 

Chandler walked a little more slowly than usual up the stairs to the squad room, allowing himself to get lost in thought on the way.  There was a lot to think about where the case was concerned, to be sure, but that wasn’t the direction his thoughts were going in.  He was thinking about the woman that had put Buchan in such a tizzy.  It wasn’t hard to imagine how that could happen, and not just to Buchan, but to any man.  He found himself…not immune to Emma Parker.  Try as he might, God knows.  She was smart enough to have greatly impressed Ed Buchnan who was, as naïve and awkward as he might be, easily one of the most intelligent men Chandler knew.  And she was certainly a sight for sore eyes; fair, clear skin, bright green eyes, impossibly red hair.  She dressed well, too.  He of all people knew bespoke tailoring when he saw it.  Her tailor _definitely_ knew how to play to her strengths… 

“Joe!” Miles yelled, standing directly in front of him. 

Chandler jumped at the sound and proximity.  He must have let himself get a little too carried away with his musings.  Well, that wouldn’t do at all.  Loss of control was not something he usually allowed, especially not now.  He knew where it led.  Whitechapel didn’t need any more martyrs than it had already claimed.     


	2. 30 October

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun with London geography in this chapter. I only lived there for a few months and the East End was not exactly my stomping grounds, but I’m relatively sure I’ve got it mapped out correctly for my purposes. All of the churches named are real and they were all chosen for very specific reasons. I mention, for example, that Msgr. Garnet had at one time been assigned to St. Mary’s in Chelsea. While this isn’t a plot point, St. Mary’s is, in reality, famous in the diocese for its music. So, what better place for a budding liturgist to be assigned? 
> 
> I hope you continue to enjoy the story. I’m certainly enjoying writing it. Please review, critiques are welcome!

Breaking the news about Monsignor Garnet to the archbishop had gone just as poorly as Emma had expected.  The two had gone to seminary together and had practically known each other since childhood.  He hadn’t taken it particularly well.  They weren’t quite old enough to be in that age group where the death of peers became routine.  Emma did not tell him the precise circumstances of the murder, but knew she would have to rather sooner than she hoped.  There could be no open casket and she would have to explain why it wasn’t possible when Monsignor Garnet had asked for an open casket wake in his will.  Perhaps she could come up with some excuse for why the casket would have to be closed before the day.  Blaming the autopsy seemed the best escape route at the moment. 

The day after her conversation with the archbishop, Emma had been informed that she was to be elevated to director of the Liturgy Office.  It was not a promotion she’d been looking for and she was not convinced it shouldn’t have gone to her colleague and former fellow assistant, Father Andrew Ward.  He was older and had more experience, but she had the higher degree.  It was, possibly, the first time in her life that her doctorate had trumped experience.  It did little to comfort her. 

As a result of this promotion, Emma’s workload doubled at a time when those who worked in liturgy were entering one of the busiest times of year.  If she wasn’t answering questions about what color vestments Father was supposed to wear on All Souls (an annual headache), she was preparing for the onslaught of Advent and Christmastide.  This was all in addition to planning the funeral for a popular, some might say beloved, priest who had spent his entire clerical life working in liturgy.  This, of course, translated into an expectation that the funeral would be a triumph of liturgical excellence.  Emma wasn’t sure she was up to task of crafting a singularly transcendent spiritual experience for the mourners.  It certainly didn’t help that it had been unexpected.  Things might have been different had something with a little more warning befallen him. 

Emma grimaced and threw her pen down on her desk.  She admonished herself for thinking of Monsignor Garnet’s murder as an inconvenience.  The photos of his remains flashed in her mind once more, as they had done regularly since she saw them three days previous.  She closed her eyes tightly and pressed the heels of her hands into her eye sockets.  Sleep would have to find her soon if she was going to make it through Christmas.  Emma wondered if seeing images like that every day affected the detectives working on the case.  Surely they were made of stronger stuff if they had chosen a career like that.  Though she wondered about the detective inspector.  She pulled his card out of her wallet.  Joseph Chandler, that was it.  He had seemed out of place. 

As she thought back to her initial observations of the anxious detective, she remembered the conversation they’d had before she left.  Chandler had seemed concerned when she told him that there were forty canonized martyrs.  Surely he didn’t think someone was going to try and replicate them all.  Emma, of course, knew the story of Thomas Garnet, but other than having the same surname, she rather doubted there was any relation to William Garnet.  And if there was, it certainly wasn’t a direct lineage to either Thomas _or_ his uncle Henry. 

Her mobile ringing and vibrating across her desk jolted her out of her thoughts. 

“Dr. Emma Parker,” she said, putting the phone to her ear. 

“Hello, this is DI Chandler,” Chandler said, as if alerted to the direction of her thoughts.  His voice really was quite pleasant. 

“Yes, what can I do for you, detective inspector?” Emma asked, wondering if that was the proper title for him.  It seemed like a mouthful.  Was it just “detective”?  Or was that a demotion? 

“Joe,” Chandler offered, neatly solving her dilemma even as he created one for himself.  She had said to call her Emma, surely it was just good manners to offer the same.  Or so he told himself.  “I wanted to ask what may sound like an odd question.  Do you know of any relation between Monsignor Garnet and the martyr, Thomas Garnet?” 

Emma nearly dropped the phone.  That was just… _weird_. 

“Not that I know of,” she began, her voice shaking slightly.  The timing of his question had been eerie.  “If there is, it would have to be a distant relation.  Thomas Garnet, obviously, had no children.” 

There was silence on the line.  

“J – Joe?” She ventured, not pleased that she stumbled over his name.  It wasn’t exactly a tongue twister. 

“Yes, I’m here,” he said, his voice distant, as if he were in thought.  “Can you think of any reason why someone would think Monsignor Garnet was guilty of treason?  Not that you think he was – but that – that is to say, could someone who wasn’t entirely rational come to that conclusion?” 

“Someone who isn’t entirely rational could come to any conclusion with little cause for doing so,” Emma said flatly.  “I know this isn’t my area, but I would caution against drawing too much out of this martyr connection.  You said yourself you didn’t know how he –” 

“We do,” Chandler interrupted.  “Hanged, drawn, and quartered.  Just like you said.” 

Emma let out a shaky breath. 

“Okay, well, I would still be wary,” she continued.  “There are similarities, but the differences are also very great.  And if someone wanted to recreate the executions, wouldn’t they go after Jesuits?  I know their reputation as papists has greatly changed since the seventeenth century, but if this person is just killing priests with the same last names, you would have to put half the priests in the country under protection.  There’s no logic to it.” 

“I thought we agreed it wasn’t entirely rational,” said Chandler lightly.  Emma could almost swear it _sounded_ like he was smiling.  Was this how detectives flirted?  She shook her head.  Surely not.  

“But there has to be something, some kind of motivation,” Emma insisted, not wanting to think about the possibilities.  “I mean, the assistant director’s last name is Ward, should I tell him to watch his back?” 

“It mightn’t be a bad idea,” Chandler responded honestly. 

“You _must_ be joking.” 

There was a pause on the other end. 

“I thought you were an assistant director,” said Chandler finally.  Was he losing his touch?  He was sure she’d said she was one of two assistant directors. 

“Oh,” said Emma, clearly embarrassed.  “I was, um, promoted to director.” 

“Oh, congratulations,” Chandler said enthusiastically, sounding genuinely pleased for her. 

Emma didn’t know how to respond.  She should be proud of her accomplishments.  There weren’t very many women serving such high posts in the Catholic Church, and certainly not single laywomen.  But she hated the circumstances under which it had happened.  Had Monsignor Garnet retired and she’d then been promoted, her reaction would have consisted of the pride and elation expected of her.  Not like this, though.   

“Or is it not such a happy occasion?” Chandler inquired further, seeming to detect her feelings on the matter. 

Emma sighed. 

“The promotion is…tainted,” she said sadly.  “It’s not that this wasn’t what I wanted eventually, _ages_ from now, it’s just…” 

“Not like this,” said Chandler, echoing verbatim her own thoughts. 

She paused for a moment before forging ahead. 

“Joe, can I ask you a question?”  She sounded uncertain, very unlike what he imagined to be her normal authoritative manner. 

“Yes, of course,” he answered.  

“How do you sleep at night?” Emma asked in a small voice.  

Chandler knew immediately what she meant.  He’d been asked before, but he never had an answer ready.  Not an honest one, anyway.  He usually ended up deflecting, trying to assure the victim or the family that it would get better.  He was tempted to take that escape. 

“With difficulty,” he said, surprising even himself with the almost brutal honesty of his answer.  “Are you…having difficulties?” 

Emma sighed again.  She quirked her mouth before finally answering. 

“Those photos, I can’t _not_ see them,” she said, her breath hitching.   “Any time I’m not focused on what I’m doing, I see them.  I can’t – I mean, you saw the real thing.  I only saw photos.  I should be able to deal with this.” 

“No one should have to deal with this,” said Chandler in a soft voice.  “None of us is an expert in this.  We all have our own mechanisms, but it never goes away.” 

“What is your mechanism?” Emma asked, knowing full well it was a deeply personal question. 

“Order,” came Chandler’s short reply. 

Emma only hummed in response. 

“You’re not surprised,” he said knowingly, slightly embarrassed that his habits were so obvious. 

“I’m sorry to say I’m not,” Emma admitted.  “But I can see how it would help.  I am…particular, in my own way.” 

Chandler was more than pleasantly surprised by her answer.  Everyone had different words for it – his team’s descriptions were more colorful than most – so it wasn’t entirely common to find someone using the same euphemism.  He disliked terms like “condition” or “compulsion.”  Particular at least made it sound like a choice, even if he was fully aware that personal choice had very little to do with much of what he did.    

“Sometimes it’s little more than organized chaos, but there are little things I will always do a certain way,” she further explained.  “There is, at least, the _illusion_ of order.  But I’m not, you know, checking my locks fifty times a day or anything.” 

Chandler flinched.  He had gotten better recently, but there were some days… 

“If I were in a different job, I might not have developed quite so many _particularities_ ,” said Chandler, not knowing why he felt the need to defend himself.  “There is a lot to…to keep at bay.” 

“Why do you do it, then?”  She asked. 

“I was born into it,” Chandler answered simply. 

“Yes, but, surely you could have gone into something else,” Emma countered, wondering why he would continue to inflict the experience upon himself. 

“There was nothing else for me,” he responded.  “There still isn’t, though my initial career trajectory for myself did not involve much time on the street.  It’s grown on me.  It is…fulfilling.” 

“I suppose that’s all anyone can ask,” said Emma thoughtfully.  “Sometimes I wish my career weren’t _quite_ so fulfilling, but this is all I ever wanted to do.” 

“And what is it, exactly, that you do?” Chandler asked, seizing the opportunity to both shift the conversation away from his own shortcomings and to alleviate his confusion as to her job.  He didn’t like the feeling. 

Emma laughed in response. 

“You would be surprised how often I’m asked that question even by practicing Catholics,” she said.  “We are, essentially, a resource for every diocese and parish in the country.  We offer training for those involved in liturgy, guidance on liturgical rubrics, physical resources like sheet music, training manuals; anything to do with the worship life of the Catholic Church in England and Wales, to speak broadly.” 

“Oh, is that all?” Chandler said with a laugh, though he was impressed with the scope of her duties.    

“And I have my own work, of course,” Emma added.  “Publishing, lectures, and so on.  Glamorous life in the ivory tower and all.  The hours are endless, but I cannot begin to imagine doing what you do.  Are all of you in counseling or something?” 

Chandler cleared his throat uncomfortably, Morgan’s face surfacing clearly in his mind’s eye.  She couldn’t have known. 

“Oh, I’m sorry, that was – I mean, that’s none of my business,” Emma said hurriedly, mistaking his reaction for offense.  She barreled on, trying to move past the social blunder, “If, um, you would like to see the result of my work, you are welcome to attend Monsignor Garnet’s funeral.  Would that be useful?  Would the killer be tempted to go?  That’s a – that’s a thing, isn’t it?  Or have I seen one too many episodes of Law & Order?” 

Emma was rambling again.  She pressed the side of her fist against her forehead and closed her eyes tightly.  One day she would grow out of that. 

“It has been known to happen,” Chandler started, finding himself rather charmed by her babbling.  At least he wasn’t the only one with nervous habits.  “Usually when there is a personal relationship between the killer and the victim, which does not seem to be the case here.” 

Emma huffed in response. 

“With respect, you don’t know what the case is here,” she said, not meaning to sound quite as judgmental as it came out.  “What I mean is that you don’t know if the killer is actually trying to replicate the executions for political or theological reasons or if it was more personal than that.” 

Chandler had to concede that she made a very good point.  He drew a breath to tell her as much, but was interrupted by a knock on his door. 

“One moment, please,” he told Emma before covering the receiver with his hand.  “Yes?” 

The door opened to admit Miles. 

“I looked into Garnet’s background,” he started before being cut off by Chandler pointing one rigid finger in the air and pressing the phone against his chest.  Miles nodded his understanding and Chandler put the phone back to his ear. 

“Emma, could I phone you back later?” Chandler asked, looking pointedly at Miles, who responded with mouthing her name suggestively.  Chandler scowled at him. 

“Oh, yes, of course,” said answered, only just realizing how long they’d been talking.  “Though you needn’t do so if you don’t have any more questions for me.” 

She slapped a hand against her forehead and frowned.  She was trying to not waste his time, not make him feel like she didn’t want to talk to him. 

“The funeral?” He asked, remembering that he hadn’t yet given her an answer. 

“Yes, yes, of course,” she repeated.  Her vocabulary shrank dramatically when she was thrown off balance.  “The time has not yet been definitively set, but it will be on the 6th – that’s, em, next week –” She trailed off, looking at the calendar on her laptop, “Wednesday.” 

“You’ll call when you have more details?” He asked, trying, rather unsuccessfully, not to sound too eager. 

“Certainly,” Emma responded, trying, for her part, not to sound too pleased with herself. 

There was an awkward moment of silence on both ends of the line. 

“Erm, well, I shall talk to you later then,” Emma said at last. 

“Yes, speak to you later,” Chandler answered before ending the call and placing his phone back in its place on his desk. 

“Is that who you’ve been on the phone with this whole time?” Miles said immediately. 

“It wasn’t – what do you mean, ‘this whole time’?” Chandler asked, irritated by Miles’ surveillance.  Miles opened his mouth to tell him exactly how long he’d been on the phone, but Chandler interrupted him.  “You had something to tell me?” 

Miles’ mouth snapped shut.  He smirked and rolled his eyes before looking at his notes. 

“Yeah, there’s nothin’ there,” he answered, clearly frustrated by his lack of answers.  “No criminal history, no moving from parish to parish.  They sent him to Rome, he came back when he was done, worked at St. Mary’s in Chelsea, and then got transferred to Westminster Cathedral before ending up at the Liturgy Office.  Real fast track.  No rumors, no whispers, nothing.” 

Chandler sighed and rubbed more Tiger Balm on his temples.  He glanced at the pot; he was running low.  That would have to be remedied quickly. 

“That’s good news for Emma, but it doesn’t do much to help us,” said Chandler.  “The only real good news is that if the killer is trying to reenact the executions on significant dates, the next one shouldn’t happen until the 29th of November.  It gives us some time, at least.” 

“Yeah,” said Miles sarcastically.  “So we can focus our attention on the nutters who come out for Halloween.  Bloody holiday should have stayed in America where it belongs.” 

Chandler had to agree, to a point.  He was sure it was all well and good for the children who got to wear fancy dress and be given sweets, but it was an absolute nightmare for law enforcement.  There usually weren’t many terribly violent crimes; rather, there were countless petty misdemeanors that did nothing but waste the time of all involved.  

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Chandler stood.  He put his phone in his pocket and his watch back on his wrist.  Rapping his knuckles on the desk once, he stepped around to the door, gesturing for Miles to precede him.  Once out in the incident room, he called the attention of his team as he approached the whiteboard. 

“We found the remains here,” Chandler started, tapping his finger on the map.  “On Lukin Street, in the churchyard of St. Mary & St. Michael’s.  Ed is looking into the historical significance of that location.” 

Chandler glanced at the scant information on the board before speaking again. 

“Who’s spoken to Garnet’s secretary?  Did he have reason to be in the area?” Chandler asked, picking up a marker. 

“I did, sir,” Mansell spoke up, flipping through a notepad.  “According to her, he had a dinner appointment with the priest at Tower Hill.  He was there on time, nothing unusual.  Left just after dark.” 

Chandler began to write, but soon realized the significance of the location.  He turned his head slowly to look over his shoulder at Mansell. 

“Tower Hill?” He asked, his voice insistent.  “Is that the name of the parish or the church?” 

Questioning looks were exchanged amongst the detectives.  No one had thought to check.  

Chandler huffed in frustration, slapped the marker back in the tray, and fished his phone out of his pocket.  He quickly typed in “Tower Hill parish church.”  The search results sent a chill down his spine. 

“Oh my God,” he said in a low voice, staring at his phone. 

“What is it?” Miles spoke up, moving toward his boss. 

“Tower Hill is the _parish_ ,” replied Chandler, still looking down at the screen. 

“And the church?” Miles pressed. 

Chandler looked up at the eager, anxious faces of his team. 

“The English Martyrs.”


	3. 1 November

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of notes before we kick off this chapter. First, nearly all of the information I have for St. Mary and St. Michael came from a book called A History of St Mary & St Michael’s Parish. It is available on Amazon should you want to pick it up (I got mine for $4!). Second, if you would like to listen to the music I reference at the end of this chapter, the Westminster Cathedral Choir (the very choir Emma is listening to) has a recording of Victoria’s Requiem available on iTunes. The Introit is definitely worth the 99 cents it costs to download. I also recommend the version performed by Harry Christophers & The Sixteen.

Buchan came bounding up the stairs, a thick file held triumphantly aloft. 

“Joe!” He called out as he strode toward Chandler’s office door.  “I have it!” 

“ _DI Chandler’s_ not here,” said Miles, still irritated that Buchan referred to Chandler by his given name.  It was one thing before he was hired, but now that he was his boss it seemed to Miles to be disrespectful not only to Chandler himself but to all the other detectives in the unit.  Like he was trying to put himself above them. 

Buchan stopped short, looking crestfallen. 

“Oh,” he said quietly.  “Any idea where he’s gone?” 

Miles almost refused to tell him, but knew that Buchan wasn’t about to share what he had with anyone other than Chandler.  The faster Chandler found out, the sooner the entire team would know. 

“The local,” he answered gruffly. 

“Thank you kindly,” Buchan responded, complete with a quick bow of his head. 

Miles rolled his eyes and turned back to his desk. 

Buchan pulled his coat a little more tightly around him as he bustled to the local pub.  It was late afternoon and the autumn air was cooling quickly as the sun set over the city.  He entered the pub to find Chandler seated at a small table out of the way from the main thoroughfare.  He was eating a sandwich and reading. 

“Joe,” Buchan greeted him as he approached.  Chandler’s head snapped up.  He hadn’t been expecting company. 

“Ed,” Chandler answered cautiously. 

“Miles told me you were here,” he explained.  

Chandler nodded as he placed a folded sheet of paper into the book he’d been reading and set it, face down, on the table.  It was no good, though, as Buchan owned that very book and recognized it immediately from the spine. 

“Do you find her writing as engaging as I do?” Buchan asked, excited that he might have found someone with whom he could talk about Emma’s work. 

“It is…a bit beyond me,” Chandler answered honestly.  Truthfully, he had barely made it past the introduction.  He wasn’t used to reading things he didn’t understand. 

“I particularly enjoyed her use of the Ambrosian rite in her discussion on–” 

“Was there something you wanted to talk to me about?” Chandler blurted out.  He wasn’t any more keen on talking about things he’d read and hadn’t understood. 

“Hm?  Oh, yes!” Buchan exclaimed, opening his battered brown bag.  He pulled out a file and opened it on the table.  “I have the history on the location of the remains.  It’s quite an interesting church.” 

“Is it interesting for our purposes?” Chandler asked, trying to dissuade Buchan from giving him a full background if it had nothing to do with the murder. 

Buchan nodded enthusiastically. 

“It is where our story begins and ends,” he said enigmatically. 

Chandler drew a breath to speak, but Buchan shook his head.  Chandler rolled his eyes.  Of course, he didn’t want his story interrupted. 

“The St. Mary and St. Michael Church that we know today was not constructed until after Catholic Emancipation,” Buchan began in an almost hushed tone.  Chandler had to struggle to hear him over the busy pub.  “While the Penal Laws were still in force, Catholics could not worship so freely and, instead, had to confine themselves to chapels in foreign embassies or, more precariously, clandestine chapels scattered about the city.  Virginia Street Chapel was one such covert house of worship.” 

Buchan folded his hands on the table and paused before resuming his narrative. 

“The chapel is so-named because its side sat along Virginia Street, which, in those days, ran all the way to the Wapping High Street,” he continued, pulling out a map and running his finger along where the street had once been.  “The entrance was here, in King’s Head Alley, facing the river.  In order to get to it, one had to navigate a tangle of courts.  Though confusing, it was a handy way to shake a tail.” 

“Ed, fascinating as this is –” 

“I am coming to the pertinent information, Joe, I was merely setting the scene,” Buchan said archly.  “Now, if I am to continue…” 

“By all means,” Chandler answered, hands spread wide. 

“Accounts of the chapel’s establishment differ, but what is clear is that one Father James Webb was the first priest to be appointed to the care of its souls,” he said as he pushed the map aside and placed a photocopy of a portrait on the table.  “By this man, Bishop Richard Challoner.  You may recognize the name as that of the sixth form college that you would have passed on Lukin Street on your way to the church.” 

Chandler looked at the portrait and back up to Buchan, still waiting for the “pertinent information.” 

“Now, around this time, a man named William Payne, nicknamed the ‘Protestant Carpenter,’ found that he could make quite a handsome living, as one contemporary puts it, ‘making people miserable.’  He started with prostitutes, moved on to the poor, and finally began informing on priests.  Payne created a climate of fear for Catholics in London.  Most of the priests who were arrested were able to get off, but there were two cases, in particular, that did not end so happily.” 

Buchan paused again, taking out another portrait. 

“Who is this?” Chandler asked, picking up the sheet of paper. 

“That is Lord William Mansfield,” Buchan answered.  “He presided over Father Webb’s trial, and many others of the priests against whom charges were brought.  It is with thanks to him that this exercise in avarice on Payne’s part did not end in bloodshed.  He objected to many of the cases and succeeded in making himself quite a significant target for the Gordon Riots following the first Catholic Relief Act.” 

Chandler raised an eyebrow and placed the paper back on the table.  He unsuccessfully fought the urge to square it off with the sheet of paper next to it. 

“Just before Father Webb’s arrest was the trial of Father John Baptist Maloney.  While many priests were astute enough to prevent prosecution by refusing to admit they were priests, Maloney had, unfortunately, admitted as such in writing.  The judge’s hands were tied and Maloney was sentenced to life in prison,” Buchan sighed dramatically before continuing.  “For this, William Payne earned the princely sum of £100.  It was great incentive to engineer the arrest of Father Webb.” 

Buchan glanced at his notebook before continuing, ensuring he had his dates right. 

“On the morning of Saturday, the 25th of June, 1768, Father Webb was brought to trial at the Court of King’s Bench Westminster after seventeen months’ imprisonment in Newgate.  Payne’s reputation in conjunction with the witnesses called forward in Webb’s defense led Lord Mansfield to instruct the jury to deliver a not guilty verdict if they felt even the slightest doubt.  While Father Maloney had not been as lucky, and spent several years in prison before his sentence was commuted to banishment, Father Webb walked away a free man.  He was the last man to be imprisoned in England for his priesthood.  And it was in Father Webb’s own parish that the first priest in nearly 250 years was executed for the same crime.” 

“Thomas Garnet had nothing to do with the location, then,” Chandler said, looking back at the map. 

“The chapel didn’t exist until over a century after his death,” said Buchan.  “The only connection between this location and Garnet’s time would have been the Stepney Martyrs, among whom were John Fisher, Thomas More, and Philip Howard.  There is a plaque to these martyrs in St. Mary and St. Michael.  But Thomas Garnet is not one of them.” 

“Why would William Garnet have been left there, then?” Chandler asked, more voicing his own thoughts than expecting a response.  

“I might suggest you talk to Dr. Parker about the locations,” Buchan suggested.  “My local knowledge is limited for this period in history.  Dr. Parker has worked specifically on the martyrs, so she may be able to connect the dots where we cannot.” 

Chandler nodded and glanced down at the book he had been trying to spend his supper reading.  It was certainly worth pursuing and it gave him a convenient reason for calling her. 

“Right, back to work, then,” he said, neatly stacking Buchan’s papers before placing them back in the folder he’d brought with him. 

Once back in the Incident Room, Chandler gave an abridged re-telling of Buchan’s findings, trying not to allow time for Buchan to interject any color commentary, as he wrote the information on the whiteboard.  When he was finished, he turned to face his team. 

“Alright, Mansell, Reilly, I want you looking at every second of CCTV footage from every vantage point you can find.  The body was mutilated elsewhere, but he had to get to the churchyard from _somewhere_ ,” said Chandler, tapping the marker against his palm as he thought.  “And check with the cameras between Tower Hill and his home.  Garnet disappeared somewhere between the rectory at Tower Hill and Westminster.” 

“Yes, sir,” said Mansell obligingly.  He’d already gone over the footage twice, but there was no use arguing with Chandler on that point.  It was easier to just get on with it. 

 “Kent,” Chandler said, turning to the young detective.  “Try to find a connection between Garnet and this church.  Why did the killer bring him to this church specifically?” 

“Yes, sir,” Kent echoed Mansell. 

“Miles, I need to make a phone call,” Chandler said, his voice quieting as he addressed his sergeant privately.  “We need someone who has more familiarity with this subject.” 

Miles raised an eyebrow at his boss. 

“Phoning Emma, then?” He asked. 

Chandler frowned, but nodded all the same. 

“I’d rather have her round here than Buchan,” Miles commented. 

“Ed knows what he’s doing,” Chandler chastised Miles lightly.  “But she has more specialist knowledge.” 

Miles shrugged and put his hands up defensively.  Chandler was never going to change his mind on his decision to hire Buchan. 

“Go make your call,” Miles said, jerking his head toward Chandler’s office. 

“Right,” Chandler agreed, sounding slightly nervous. 

“What did I tell you about girls and bullets?” Miles prompted him quietly. 

Chandler gave Miles a long look.  He hadn’t forgotten, of course, but remembering what he’d said and actually incorporating it into his thought processes were two entirely different matters.  Before Miles could give him any more dating advice, however, Chandler simply nodded again and strode quickly to his office and shut the door. 

While Mansell and Reilly were busy watching CCTV footage, Miles stood, arms folded over his chest, staring at the whiteboard.  He still wasn’t completely convinced that there was a connection, but he knew from past experience that whatever seemed a coincidence at first glance often didn’t remain that way.  As he rocked from his heels to the balls of his feet, Miles wondered what had happened to all the ten-a-penny crimes they used to solve.  When had an amateur historian become essential personnel? 

“Where’s DI Chandler?” Came a voice from the door.  Miles didn’t immediately recognize it.  He glanced around the board and nearly whistled.  The Savile Row lot.  He wondered vaguely why Chandler hadn’t been assigned there. 

“He’s in his office,” said Miles, stepping into the walkway. 

“DCI Campbell,” the man said, extending his hand.  He held a file under his arm. 

“DS Miles,” he responded with a nod, shaking the offered hand.  

“You were the one that got stabbed by the Ripper, weren’t you?” 

Miles nodded again. 

“Still chasing copycats?” Campbell asked, looking at the whiteboard. 

“I’ll show you to DI Chandler’s office, sir,” Miles said tersely. 

Campbell raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.  He glanced once more at the board before turning to follow Miles. 

Miles knocked twice on the door before opening it. 

“Sir, DCI Campbell to see you from West End,” Miles said, standing just inside the door. 

Chandler, who’d had his phone in hand ready to call Emma, looked up at Miles before looking beyond him to Campbell.  He put his phone back in its place on his desk, stood, and gestured for Campbell to come in. 

“DCI Campbell,” said Chandler, hand extended.  “What can I do for you?” 

“We have a…body, of sorts,” he started, handing the file to Chandler.  “Remains were found in a churchyard on Farm Street.  Word came down that this was connected to a case you’re working and that it was to be handed over to you.” 

Chandler looked through the photos in the file, his face going pale. 

“Yes, this does look like ours,” he said, his voice steady at least.  He swallowed.  “Have you identified the – the remains?” 

“Just got the ID,” said Campbell.  “John Southwell.  A priest, apparently.” 

Chandler nodded. 

“Yes, definitely ours, then,” he said with a nod.  “Has any family been found?  Ours was reported missing by a work colleague.” 

Campbell shook his head. 

“Not yet, but we only found out who it was this morning.  As soon as the ID came through, I was told to bring the case to you,” Campbell explained, not sounding entirely upset that it was off his hands.  “The remains are being transferred to your medical examiner right now.” 

“Right, thank you,” said Chandler, walking back out into the Incident Room.  Campbell followed him.  “Anything else we need to know?” 

Campbell shook his head. 

“You have everything we know in there.  We hadn’t gotten very far,” Campbell explained, watching as Chandler began to methodically add the case to the whiteboard.  “Not as far as you lot with your case, it seems.” 

Chandler looked over his shoulder before glancing back at the information they had on the board for William Garnet’s case. 

“We have a different way of going about these kinds of cases,” Chandler explained as he taped the priest’s photo to the board. 

“I see,” Campbell agreed.  “Well, ring us if you have any more questions.” 

“Certainly,” Chandler said distractedly, his attention completely on writing the victim’s name above his photo. 

Campbell, feeling himself dismissed, nodded to Miles and left.  Miles approached Chandler at the board. 

“We’ve got another one, then,” he said with a sigh.  It was never just one murder anymore.  Always serials. 

“Start looking into his background,” said Chandler under his breath.  “We established that wasn’t the motive with Garnet, but I don’t want to leave anything out.” 

Miles nodded. 

“Yes, sir,” he said, returning to his desk. 

Chandler finished taping what little the West End detectives had found to the board and returned to his office.  He trusted Miles to explain the new case to the other detectives as they finished their assignments on the previous murder.  He really did have a phone call to make. 

“Dr. Emma Parker,” he heard her say.  He could also hear music.  Singing of some kind. 

“Hello Emma, this is DI – em – Joe,” he said, stumbling over his words.  He’d almost forgotten he’d told her to call him Joe. 

“Joe,” she said warmly.  “What can I do for you?” 

Chandler had quite a few answers to that question.  None he felt comfortable saying aloud.  It was really quite alarming the effect she had on him.  He wasn’t sure he liked it. 

“Does Farm Street mean anything to you?” 

“Yes, it’s the –” she stopped.  He heard her gasp.  “Joe, can you hold on for a moment?  I think I should probably get somewhere more…private.” 

The music became more muffled before he heard what sounded like a very large door open and close.  Suddenly the music stopped. 

“Are you at church?” He asked, wondering why she would have picked up her phone. 

“Choir rehearsal for the funeral,” she answered, sounding like her mind was elsewhere entirely.  “Farm Street is the Jesuit parish.  Their residence on Mount Street is just through the churchyard.” 

He knew that was important, but wasn’t entirely sure why. 

“Jesuits were the most reviled of all priests in the Elizabethan and Stuart eras,” Emma answered, correctly interpreting his silence.  “Haven’t you ever wondered where the term ‘Jesuitical’ came from?” 

Chandler could safely say that he hadn’t. 

“But why are you asking me about Farm Street?” Emma asked before he could say anything.  “Is that where Monsignor Garnet was found?” 

“No, he was found off the Commercial Road –” 

“St. Mary and St. Michael?” She asked, her voice tight with worry. 

“Yes,” said Chandler.  “You know its history?” 

“Of course,” she answered, trying – and failing – not to sound annoyed.  “But what has Mount Street got…has there been another murder?” 

“The same night as Monsignor Garnet’s,” Chandler answered. 

“Who – who was it?” Emma asked in a shaking voice.  She knew a lot of the priests in the area and all of the Jesuits living at Mount Street.

“We haven’t yet contacted the family, I can’t –” 

“Tell me the damned name,” Emma hissed, her worry and anger at the situation overriding any sense of decorum. 

“John Southwell,” he said with a resigned sigh.  He heard a choked sob over the phone and grimaced in response.  Twice now he’d made her cry. 

Emma cleared her throat and swallowed thickly.  At least she could help. 

“Do you know the martyr connection yet?” 

Chandler pursed his lips.  Buchan was still in his archive looking for the Commercial Road connection. 

“No,” he said simply. 

“Father Robert Southwell was a Jesuit in the sixteenth century and an associate of Father Henry _Garnet_ ,” she explained.  “The Society sent them to England together.” 

“Henry?  Not Thomas?” Chandler asked, remembering that Henry had been Thomas’ uncle. 

“Yes, it seems your killer isn’t entirely confining himself to the canonized forty if he killed Monsignor Garnet because he shared a name with Henry,” she said.  “I don’t know how it could be a coincidence.  Southwell was murdered in 1595, Henry was 1606, and Thomas was at least a couple of years later.  Thomas Garnet may not have ever even met Robert Southwell.  He may very well have already been dead by the time Thomas made it back to England.”  

Emma stopped speaking for a moment.  Trying to recall everything she knew about the martyrs.  It was hard to be ignorant of it as a Catholic in England, but the details eluded her without her books to consult.  Except one. 

“Henry Garnet was never was never drawn and quartered,” she said suddenly, not yet fully understanding the implications herself.  

“But Thomas was?” 

“Yes, but Henry was dead before he was cut down.  There is some disagreement as to the reason why this is,” her voice became clearer as her mind wound its way through the facts.  “Some argue that his full sentence was commuted by Charles, others say that the crowd pulled Henry’s legs and he died before the executioner could cut him down.  He was then beheaded and his heart was cut out.” 

“Then…” 

“Then that means one of three things: the killer didn’t know that; they are only focusing on surnames that match the canonized martyrs; or, they are of the opinion that Henry Garnet didn’t receive his full punishment because the crowd killed him before he could be drawn and quartered,” she explained, counting off on her fingers as she went.  “I would bet on the last.” 

Her words reminded him of something Buchan had said at the pub. 

“Do you know who Father James Webb is?” 

“He was the first pastor of St. Mary and St. Michael, but it didn’t exist as such at that time, it was the–” 

“Virginia Street Chapel,” Chandler interjected. 

“Yes, how did you–” 

“Our researcher found it,” he explained, interrupting her for a second time.  “He said that Webb was acquitted.” 

“Yes,” Emma repeated.  “Yes, he was and not everyone was happy about that.  Payne, especially, was irritated that Lord Mansfield had insulted him in open court.” 

“Could someone think that he didn’t receive his full punishment?” Chandler asked, wondering if they had finally hit upon something resembling a motive. 

“There could be,” said Emma slowly.  “There were a lot of priests who were never charged or were acquitted during those raids, but Father Webb is conspicuous because he was the last to be imprisoned before the Relief Acts.” 

Both Emma and Chandler thought in silence for a moment.  Chandler could hear the traffic outside the church on the other end. 

“But why not go for a Webb if that’s the point the killer is trying to make?” Emma asked.  “Was it only the history of the location he wanted?” 

“Is there something that connects John Southwell and William Garnet other than their surnames connecting them to Robert and Henry?” Chandler asked, trying to ground the case a little more fully in present circumstances and desperately hoping it wasn’t as random as surnames.  William Garnet’s connection to James Webb was tenuous, at best, and there was nothing but names to connect him to John Southwell. 

Emma took a deep breath and let it out slowly as she mentally catalogued everything she knew about the two men.  Her mind had been such a mess since Monsignor Garnet’s death that she hadn’t had time to organize her thoughts.  She leaned against the base of the one of the pillars flanking the entrance to the church. 

“They were very different theologically,” she began.  “Monsignor Garnet was far more conservative than Father Southwell.  The only thing that really connected them was their position on the relationship between Church and state.  Do you think that could be it?  It’s hard to imagine it’s something else, if anything, but so many of us agree on that point that –” 

“What point?” Chandler stopped her before she worked her way into a ramble.  “What was their position?” 

“Oh, oh, I’m sorry,” Emma apologized, realizing she hadn’t actually told him.  “They wanted no connection, no interference either way.  Monsignor Garnet didn’t want the Church to be controlled by the government and Father Southwell didn’t think secular law should be that closely tied to personal beliefs.” 

“Was this public knowledge?  Would anyone have known this?” Chandler asked.  Perhaps they’d finally caught a break. 

Emma shook her head before speaking. 

“Anyone who’d gone to a talk, read an article – it’s on the internet.  Literally anyone could know,” she said apologetically, though not quite sure why _she_ should be apologetic. 

Chandler frowned and threw his pen down on his desk before picking it up and placing it back in its proper place.  He’d been poised and ready to write down an orderly list of names to look into.  He should have known from the first five years of doing this that things were never that easy.  Never that neat.  He really didn’t know why he bothered trying to impose order on a world that seemed bent on chaos.  He straightened his tie. 

“It’s at 10 o’clock,” said Emma into the lingering silence. 

“Pardon?”  Chandler asked, having no idea what she was talking about. 

“The funeral,” she clarified.  “You told me to – anyway, it’s at 10 on Wednesday morning.  I would suggest you get here as early as you can.  Everyone short of the bloody queen will be attending.  I don’t think anyone will question me saving a seat, but you never know.” 

“Where is here?” 

“Westminster,” she said, continuing when she realized he might misunderstand, “Westminster Cathedral.  Would it help if any of your other detectives were there?  Perhaps at the back or along the nave?” 

“One or two might not go amiss,” Chandler agreed.  She _had_ watched a lot of Law  & Order. 

“Good, well, then I shall get that squared away with the ushers and I’ll see you on Wednesday,” said Emma, not really wanting to end the conversation but knowing that she had to get back into the church for rehearsal. 

“Indeed, I will ring you if I come up with anything else,” he said, pleased with himself for being so forward. 

“Please do,” Emma responded rather more enthusiastically than she’d intended.  She furrowed her brow, hoping she hadn’t put him off. 

He cleared his throat in response. 

“Okay,” Emma said quickly, knowing the conversation would only get more awkward from there.  “Wednesday, then.” 

“Yes, Wednesday,” said Chandler.  “Good bye.” 

“Bye,” Emma said, swiftly ending the call and going back into the church. 

The choir was singing the Introit from Victoria’s Requiem as she moved back to the pew she’d been sitting in to listen to their rehearsal.  Emma was very powerfully reminded of what had happened and the full weight of her sadness hit her all at once.  She didn’t often let herself show much emotion in public, but at that moment, all sense of decorum and control was lost and she began to weep.  She was quiet enough not to disturb the choir, but if anyone had but glanced at her, she would not have been able to hide it.  Emma could only hope and pray that she wouldn’t have anyone else to cry over by the time this case was solved.    


	4. 6 November

Chandler, along with Miles and Kent, arrived at Westminster Cathedral one hour before the funeral was scheduled to begin.  Chandler had never had reason to actually enter the church, but the red and white striped facade was a distinctive landmark amongst the limestone that dominated London architecture, which appeared almost drab in comparison.  The cathedral’s Byzantine aesthetic was an exotic stranger when compared to the English Baroque of Wren’s cathedral or the Gothic towers of the Abbey.  Chandler confessed himself amused by the metaphor.  

Suddenly he felt a hand on his arm.  He looked to his left to see Emma. 

“Emma,” he said by way of greeting.  She smiled tightly in response.  He knew well enough not be put off by it, he was sure she had all of her plates full at the moment. 

“I only just got here myself,” she answered, somewhat breathless.  

“I’ve brought DS Miles and DC Kent with me.” 

Emma looked past Chandler and nodded to both men. 

Just before the quartet reached the large doors, through which mourners already streamed, Emma’s attention was caught by a priest standing in front of one of the announcement boards that flanked the entrance.  She swiftly walked over to him, kissed both of his cheeks, and began speaking to him in what Chandler was fairly certain was Italian.  After a moment, she gestured for the three detectives to come forward. 

“Father, these are the detectives working on Monsignor Garnet’s case,” she said, switching to English for their sake.  “Detective Inspector Chandler, Detective Sergeant Miles, and Detective Constable Kent.” 

The priest shook each of their hands vigorously. 

“I hope you can catch whoever killed the monsignore,” the priest said in a very thick accent.  “He was a gift to our Church.” 

“This is Father Francesco Marini,” said Emma.  “He works in Rome for the Congregation for Divine Worship.  He’s known Monsignor Garnet for nearly as long as the archbishop.” 

“Monsignore and I were at the Institutum Liturgicum together,” Father Marini elaborated.  “He was, of course, some years ahead of me.” 

_“Of course,”_ Emma repeated sarcastically.  She sighed and looked back toward the doors.  “Well, shall we?” 

Chandler followed her line of sight and allowed his eyes to drift upward, toward the mosaic surrounded by striped arches over the doors and further up, to the Latin text fixed to the stone. 

“Domine Jesu rex et redemptor per sanguinem tuum salva nos,” Chandler read out in rather stilted Latin. 

“Lord Jesus, King and Redeemer, save us by your blood,” Emma translated.  “The cathedral is dedicated to the Most Precious Blood.” 

Chandler merely nodded in response.  He allowed Emma to precede him into the church and watched as she dipped her fingers into the font on the inside of the door and crossed herself.  She then pulled the lace shawl she’d had wrapped around her shoulders up over her hair.  Fishing a bobby pin out of the pocket of her black blazer, she pinned the shawl in place. 

As Emma spoke softly to Father Marini, Chandler took in his surroundings.  Despite all the lights being on, it seemed quite a dark space.  While one would think the dark bricks of the domes and arches would enclose the cavernous space, it oddly gave the sense of some kind of endless horizon.  Like standing in a country field late at night.  A large painted crucifix suspended thirty feet over the altar dominated the front of the church while the central aisle stretched from where Chandler stood to the altar at a length of what he supposed was nearly three hundred feet.  There were large pillars and slabs of marble of all colors and patterns and mosaics covered the interior of the domes and provided ornamentation for the brick arches.  Chandler inhaled deeply.  The church smelled pleasantly of candlewax and incense.  It was…comforting, he thought.   

Chandler turned around to find his detectives similarly engaged. 

“Neither of you have been here before, then?” 

“No, sir,” said Kent. 

“Miles, I want to you on the left and Kent, you will stay to the right,” Chandler explained, gesturing toward the side aisles.  “Since we don’t yet have any kind of profile, take note of anyone who seems suspicious.” 

“Joe,” Emma whispered suddenly, waving him and his detectives over as the Italian priest made his way to his seat.  “I thought you should know that the St. George Chapel is over there,” she said, pointing out the middle of the three chapels along the left hand side of the church.  “It is also dedicated to the English martyrs.” 

“Why are there so many?” Kent asked, looking over at the chapel. 

“So many what?” asked Emma. 

“Dedications, memorials,” he elaborated.  “It seems everything has to do with the martyrs.” 

Emma stiffened.  In the back of her mind she knew he hadn’t meant it as an insult, one look at his face could show his innocence, but it felt like one.  Perhaps it was the circumstances. 

“It does well to remind ourselves what it can cost to be Catholic in this country,” she whispered furiously.  

“Alright, alright,” Miles broke in, trying to restore the peace.  Emma remembered herself and backed down. 

“I’m sorry,” she said.  “We are all a little on edge.  Especially the priests.  They are all scared of saying or writing anything that might make them a target.  Homilies have been particularly innocuous recently.” 

“How do they know there’s a connection?” Chandler asked, concerned about maintaining some control over the information surrounding the cases. 

“Diocesan grapevine,” Emma explained as if it were obvious.  “These men aren’t stupid and news travels fast.  Most of them probably knew Father Southwell was dead before you did.” 

“You didn’t,” said Chandler bluntly. 

“No, I didn’t.  But I’ve been preoccupied with this,” she said, gesturing toward the sanctuary. 

The group began moving up the center aisle, Miles and Kent broke off about half way along to take up their posts along the side aisles.  Emma and Chandler continued until they reached the front row of pews.  There were reserve signs hanging from the sides. 

“This is us,” said Emma, gesturing for Chandler to precede her. 

Chandler stepped into the pew and watched as Emma genuflected toward the altar and crossed herself before sitting as well.  Without speaking to him, she pulled down the kneeler and settled herself onto it.  Her shoulders slumped and she sighed as she rested her forehead on her folded hands.  After several minutes she crossed herself and slid back into the pew before leaning down to put the kneeler back up.  She glanced around the church, which had slowly begun to fill. 

“Are you alright?” Chandler leaned over and whispered. 

Emma turned back to face him. 

“Yes, of course,” she answered and then turned away again.  She sounded agitated.  “Could you excuse me for a moment?  I just saw someone that I must speak to.” 

She was already stepping out of the pew when Chandler spoke. 

“Certainly,” answered Chandler softly, slightly unsettled by her odd behavior. 

He took advantage of his solitude and allowed his gaze to wander around the church, taking note of both Miles and Kent before moving on, satisfied that they had the task well at hand.  His eyes settled on an odd statue stood atop the gates to one of the side chapels.  It looked to be a bird of some sort.  A pelican, perhaps?  He’d always thought of that as an Anglican symbol. 

Emma returned to her seat as Chandler gazed contemplatively at the statue. 

“A pelican,” she said. 

“Yes, I know,” he answered in a rather more self-satisfied way than he’d intended.  He hadn’t known much of what Emma had told him since he met her.  “But isn’t that Church of England?” 

Emma raised an eyebrow. 

“Elizabeth took the symbol on as her own, but it was ours first.  It is a reference to the Eucharist, specifically the Most Precious Blood, hence…” She trailed off, waving her hand in the direction of the entrance of the church. 

“Ah, yes, ‘per sanguinem tuum salva nos,’” Chandler recited. 

“I’m impressed,” said Emma.  “Few and far between are the men who can memorize Latin so quickly.” 

Chandler shrugged. 

“Public school,” he answered simply. 

“I should have known,” said Emma. 

Just then a bell rang clearly throughout the church, which Chandler assumed signaled the start of the service.  He had only ever been to one Catholic funeral and it had been nothing like the spectacle he witnessed.  The music was particularly sublime and he recognized one piece as the hymn the choir had been singing when he’d spoken to Emma on the phone the previous week.  There were countless in attendance, filling the cavernous space to near standing room.  Emma had been right when she’d told him that Monsignor Garnet had been well-liked. 

Chandler glanced at Emma.  He had thought that she would be more upset by the funeral.  But she seemed positively serene, if slightly subdued.  Over the years, Chandler thought he had seen the entire spectrum of human response to death.  But he had never seen anyone quite so calm.  It was almost unnerving.  

When the last strains of the organ faded, Emma turned to Chandler. 

“Would you like to meet the archbishop?” She asked.   

“Does he not have to go to the cemetery?” 

“Another priest will be celebrating the rite of committal.  We had originally discussed it, but he didn’t think he would be up to it.  The Mass is one thing, but actually burying the body is another,” Emma explained.  “So, shall we?” 

“As long as –” 

“Trust me, Joe, you are working to solve the murder of his oldest friend.  He will want to meet you,” she assured him. 

Emma led Chandler to the far right of the church, past the side chapel dedicated to the Blessed Virgin.  They walked up a corridor that ran between the chapel and the outside wall before finally coming to a large wooden door, which opened into a large room with high ceilings, lined with long windows.  There were dark wood cabinets and glass cases containing crucifixes, thuribles, and other golden items used for worship.  Chandler was sure Emma could give him a treatise on every piece his eyes landed upon. 

“Your Excellency, this is Detective Inspector Chandler,” said Emma, gesturing toward him.  “He is the detective working on Monsignor Garnet’s case.” 

“Detective Inspector,” said the archbishop, moving to shake Chandler’s hand.  He still wore his vestments from Mass.  “Do let me know if the archdiocese can be of any help to you.  Emma has been keeping me updated on her involvement and I want you to know that I am prepared to offer you any assistance you may need.” 

Chandler nodded in response. 

“Thank you,” he said, shaking the man’s hand.  “Emma has been of great help to our investigation.” 

Emma looked away to hide her blush and saw an altar server enter the sacristy, a folded piece of paper in his hand. 

“Your Excellency, this was left for you,” the young man said, holding out the piece of paper. 

The archbishop took the note and opened it, suspecting it to be a letter of condolence.  As he read, his eyes widened.  

“What?  What is it?” Emma asked in a panicked voice. 

“It…isn’t a message of condolence,” the archbishop responded vaguely. 

“Put it on the counter, nobody else touch it,” said Chandler authoritatively.  Pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket, he held down the top of the paper so he could read the note. 

“Who gave this to you?” He asked the altar server. 

“One of the visiting priests,” the altar server answered.  “He said someone gave it to him after Mass.” 

“Go get him for us, will you?” Asked the archbishop.  The young man nodded and hurried out of the sacristy. 

Emma came up behind Chandler and read over his shoulder. 

“The Church of God must be purged,” she read aloud.  “That…doesn’t make any sense.” 

Chandler looked back at her, his brow furrowed.  Emma looked to the archbishop. 

“We thought it was – that it was someone who was anti-Catholic,” she said, staring at the note.  “The only connection I could draw between Father Southwell and Monsignor Garnet was their position on the separation of Church and state.” 

“But purged of what?” Asked Chandler. 

“Look at the signature,” Emma gasped, pointing at the scrawled letters under the message. 

“Pix?” 

Emma shook her head. 

“No, that’s IX – they’re Roman numerals.  He’s signed off as Pius IX.” 

“It’s the _Syllabus_ ,” the archbishop said suddenly.  Emma nodded. 

“The _Syllabus of Errors_ ,” Emma agreed.  She turned to Chandler.  “It was a document promulgated by Pope Pius IX in 1864.  It was a collection of phrases taken from earlier papal documents, all condemning the errors of modernism.” 

“How does this relate to –” 

“The separation of Church and state is one of the errors,” Emma said quickly.  “We’ve got this all wrong.  This is isn’t someone re-enacting the martyrs.  They’re avenging them; purging the Church of errors, of those who are not faithful to the memory of Catholic oppression.” 

“We’re looking for a Catholic, then?” Chandler asked. 

“I wouldn’t say it’s a certainty.  Well, not a Catholic in full communion.  It’s possible it’s a sedevacanist.” 

Chandler gave Emma a blank look.  He seemed to be doing that a lot. 

“It means, literally, ‘vacant seat.’  We have a vacant seat in between each pontificate.  But this is a strand of ultra-traditionalist Catholics, or so they would call themselves, who believe that Pius XII was the last true pope.  They believe that the seat of Peter has been empty ever since.” 

“Your Excellency,” the altar server had returned, out of breath.  “He’s coming.” 

“Thank you, Thomas,” said the archbishop. 

Thomas turned now to Emma. 

“Dr. Parker, there are some priests out here from Rome who are waiting to speak with you.” 

“Oh, I completely forgot,” she groaned.  “I will be right there.” 

Thomas nodded and left. 

“Do you need me here for this?” 

“I shouldn’t think so,” said Chandler, shaking his head.  He drew in a breath to speak, but Emma raised her hand. 

“No worries, Joe,” she said.  “I will speak to you later.  And…thank you for coming.” 

Emma nodded with finality and smiled before turning on her heel and walking back to the sanctuary.  It was high time they both get back to work.  He was far too distracting. 

The corner of the archbishop’s mouth lifted as he watched the pair part.  Though he wondered how much a detective and a liturgist could have in common, it was clear they were drawn to one another.  So much so that the detective continued to stare at the door long after Emma had left.  His attention was only diverted when the visiting priest came through the same door. 

“You wanted to see me, Your Excellency?” 

The archbishop nodded. 

“Yes, Father…?”  He was not acquainted with the man.  He was certainly American and the archbishop supposed that he was a friend of Monsignor Garnet’s from his days in Rome. 

“Haskins, Excellency.  Robert Haskins,” he answered.  “From the Diocese of Arlington.” 

“Well, Father Haskins, Thomas said that someone gave you this note for me?” 

“A woman, though I didn’t recognize her,” Father Haskins explained. 

“A woman?” Chandler asked, wondering why he hadn’t guessed as much from the handwriting of the note.  “Father, would you be willing to sit down with a sketch artist and describe her?” 

Father Haskins shrugged. 

“I suppose so,” he answered.  “Does this have anything to do with William’s death?” 

Chandler nodded.  There was no point in keeping that secret. 

“Whoever gave that note to you is either an accomplice or the killer herself,” said Chandler gravely. 

Father Haskins accompanied Chandler, Miles, and Kent back to the station that very afternoon.  Chandler had tried to catch another glimpse of Emma as they walked back through the church, but she had already left.  Once back in the incident room, Chandler introduced the priest to the police sketch artist and let them ensconce themselves in one of the more inviting interview rooms.  He had found that if witnesses were allowed a quiet environment, their memories could be searched much more accurately. 

As the minutes ticked by, the team anxiously awaited the outcome of the sketch.  Chandler had barricaded himself in his office, unable to keep his _mechanisms_ from, frankly, annoying the hell out of his sergeant.  Nearly an hour after Father Haskins had met the sketch artist, the pair returned, the latter of the two holding a folder in his hand.  Chandler watched as Miles accepted it and saw his face change as he took in the drawing.  He stood from his desk and walked out the door, only catching the tail end of what Miles was saying to Mansell. 

“I’m telling you, it’s the spitting image of her,” Miles said in a whisper. 

Chandler approached them and Miles snapped the folder shut. 

“The spitting image of whom?” 

“Joe,” said Miles quietly.  Chandler could felt his stomach drop.  Miles never used his given name at work unless something was terribly wrong.  “Let’s go back to your office.” 

Chandler could only nod and follow his sergeant, staring at the file held at his side.  Miles closed the door after Chandler had entered and moved to lean against his desk. 

“This is what the sketch artist came up with after talking to the priest,” said Miles unnecessarily, still trying to wrap his head around what he held in his hand.  He opened the file and looked at it before taking out the sketch and holding it out to his boss. 

But Chandler couldn’t reach out his hand to take the offering.  He could only stare at the drawing in shock. 

“It’s not possible…”


	5. 7 November

“It can’t be,” Chandler muttered to himself for what must have been the hundredth time in the last twenty-four hours.  He was sat at his desk, still staring at the rendering of the woman Father Haskins had described to the sketch artist.  Even without any color, he knew the hair would be red and the eyes green.  It _was_ Emma.  But it couldn’t be.  It simply wasn’t possible. 

“She’s on her way in,” Miles’ voice floated in through his fogged mind.  Chandler’s head snapped up. 

“She’s here?” He asked, sounding slightly panicked. 

Miles shook his head. 

“On her way,” he answered.  “I just told her we needed help with the investigation.  Didn’t want her coming in on the defensive.” 

Chandler nodded absently; his brain already jumping forward in time.  How was he going to have this conversation? 

“Sir, I can –” 

“No,” said Chandler immediately, cutting Miles off.  “I’m not going to staff this out.” 

Chandler sighed and rolled his shoulders.  He hadn’t slept well. 

“Did you…?” He began hopefully, trailing off when Miles shook his head. 

“We couldn’t find anything to say either way.  My gut says she’s not involved, but I don’t have any proof,” said Miles, trying – and failing – to calm his boss.  “If she has an alibi, it isn’t one she can easily back up.” 

“She shouldn’t have to,” Chandler grumbled.  “She isn’t involved.” 

He’d said it enough to himself over his sleepless night.  Maybe if he kept saying it, it would be true.  But then he thought back to the funeral.  She had been acting a little odd prior to the start of the service.  She had snapped at Kent with little provocation and had expressed the same sentiment as they’d seen in the letter given to the archbishop.  But her grief when she’d learned of Monsignor Garnet’s death had seemed very real to him.  Could she be that good of an actor? 

Miles sighed and left his boss to his thoughts.  Walking back into the Incident Room, he saw Kent staring intently at the sketch taped to the board.  Miles approached the whiteboard and reached for the sketch, wanting to take it down before Emma arrived. 

“Wh –” Kent started as Miles pulled the sketch off the board. 

“She’s on her way,” he answered gruffly. 

Kent looked again at the sketch in Miles’ hand before looking back at Chandler’s office.  Miles knew that look.  The young man had been suspicious of Morgan Lamb, too.  He wasn’t entirely sure what Kent’s angle was, but it was clear he was protective of their chief inspector.  They all were, if he was honest, but Kent’s loyalty was more personal, even if Miles did owe Chandler his very life. 

“Innocent until proven guilty,” Miles reminded Kent. 

Kent just short of glared at Miles before returning to his desk.  Miles shook his head and put the sketch in a drawer. 

Twenty minutes later, Chandler’s phone rang.  It was the front desk letting him know that Emma had arrived and that she was on her way up.  He hung up the phone and picked up his watch and mobile phone.  Standing, he put his suit jacket on, his hands shaking as he buttoned it.  He clenched and unclenched his fists several times before nervously fidgeting with his cufflinks. 

“Dr. Parker,” Chandler heard Miles say beyond his closed office door.  He sucked in a deep breath and slowly let it out before opening the door.  Miles was already approaching with Emma. 

“Why don’t we go in here,” said Miles, ushering Emma past Chandler.  

“Okay,” said Emma, sounding a little uncertain about the situation, but trusting the detectives.  She entered the office and moved toward one of the chairs while Miles remained next to Chandler in the doorway. 

“Technically we should be doing this in –” Chandler started in a low voice. 

“What’s technical ain’t always right, _sir_ ,” Miles responded sagely.  

“Right,” Chandler said absently, too focused on Emma.  Then, facing Miles squarely, he said again, “Right.” 

Miles nodded and went back to his desk, closing Chandler’s door behind him. 

“Right, well,” Chandler began nervously, sitting once more behind his desk.  “Dr. Parker, I have some questions to ask you.” 

Emma’s face fell.  It was back to Dr. Parker, then, was it?   Chandler regretted putting distance between them, but he felt it was best given the circumstances. 

“Ask away,” she answered in a false cheeriness that poorly masked her brittle voice. 

“The priest who was given the note at Monsignor Garnet’s funeral has given us a description of the woman who gave it to him,” Chandler began. 

_“Woman?”_ Emma blurted out.  She knew it wasn’t outside the realm of possibility that a woman could do such things, but she was also fairly certain it wasn’t common. 

“Yes,” said Chandler.  “The sketch artist came up with this…” 

He trailed off as he took the sketch out of the folder and slid it across the desk toward her.  Emma’s eyebrows drew together as she stared at the drawing in confusion.  She reached her hand out and lightly touched it, unable to comprehend what was happening. 

“This…” She swallowed thickly.  “This looks like me.” 

Emma’s eyes snapped up to Chandler’s. 

“You don’t think…that I…Monsignor Garnet…” She pursed her lips, unable string her thoughts together and trying to quell the nausea churning in her stomach.  She drew in a deep breath through her nose and slowly let it out through her mouth. 

“Dr. Parker–” Chandler stopped himself.  “Emma, I have to ask, where were you the night of the twenty-fifth of October?”  

Emma gaped at him, her mind unable to accept that this was really happening.  She opened and closed her mouth several times in quick succession. 

“I was…” she began, thinking back to the night in question.  “I was at work and then I went home at around 8:30, I think.  I don’t remember what time exactly.  It had already gone dark.” 

“And you live alone,” Chandler said.  A statement of fact. 

Emma nodded.  Chandler drew in a breath to tell her that he had to arrest her under suspicion of murder. 

“My building has a doorman,” she said flatly, sensing what he had been about to say.  

“Wh – oh,” Chandler answered lamely.  “All –” 

“There is someone at the desk twenty-four hours a day,” she cut him off.  Her nerves subsided in the certainty that she could prove her innocence. 

“Is there no other way out of your building?  A fire escape?”  Chandler hated himself for asking, but he had to. 

Emma’s shoulders slumped. 

“There is,” she revealed.  “It leads out the back, by the bins.” 

Chandler sighed.  He really did not want to do this.

“Can’t you at least tell me who’s accused me?” She asked desperately. 

Chandler shook his head. 

“I’m sorry, I can’t,” he apologized.  He opened his desk drawer to retrieve his handcuffs, but closed it, thinking back on what Miles had told him.  But that was the only favor he could grant her.  “Please stand.” 

Emma’s breath caught in her throat and she nearly started hyperventilating as she realized what he was about to say. 

“Emma Parker, I am placing you under arrest on suspicion of murder,” he stated mechanically, trying to distance himself from what he was reciting.  “You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.  Do you understand what I have just told you?” 

Emma could only nod.  She couldn’t even cry; just stare in shock and numbly follow the directions he was giving her. 

“I am going to take you down to one of the holding cells,” he said, his voice softer.  He continued, knowing he really shouldn’t, “You are not going to be processed right away, but I would suggest calling your solicitor.” 

“I – I don’t have one,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.  “I’ve never…” 

“If you can’t find one, there will be one appointed for you,” he offered. 

Emma shook her head. 

“I know some – I mean, I have some friends.  Canon law, but they know…some of them went to law school, they’ll know people,” she stammered.  “It’ll be fine.  I didn’t do it.” 

She looked up at him, certain of her own innocence, but terrified all the same. 

Chandler opened his office door to find the entire squad standing just outside, suddenly finding the papers in their hands especially interesting.  He gestured for Emma to precede him, placing his hand on her elbow to guide her through the room and, given how pale she looked, to catch her in case she fainted. 

He looked at Miles, whose eyes widened in shock when he realized what was going on.  Chandler shook his head, trying to convey to his sergeant that he would explain later.  The squad parted to allow the pair through. 

Miles watched as Chandler led the shaking, unstable woman toward the stairs. 

“This isn’t right,” he said in a low voice, almost a growl. 

“Why not?” Kent spoke up.  “That priest described her to a tee.” 

Miles glared at the young man. 

“And what do we know about _him_?”  Miles countered. 

“What do you mean?” He asked, genuinely confused.  “He’s a priest.” 

Miles rolled his eyes.  Kent really did show his age sometimes. 

“Where did he say he was from?” Miles asked, sitting down at his desk.  It was time to act like real detectives. 

“Arlington,” said Kent, looking at his notes. 

“Did anyone phone Arlington to find out what they can tell us about him?” 

Miles looked around the room.  Blank faces. 

“Well somebody find me the bloody number, then!  I want to talk to the Arlington police!” Miles snapped at the team. 

“Why the police?” Kent asked, already searching on his computer. 

“Let’s call it a hunch,” Miles answered vaguely.  For the first time in too long, Miles felt back in charge, like he was doing what he’d been trained to do and had spent his life doing, rather than relying upon the stories of the freak in the basement. 

Within seconds, Miles had the number in hand and was punching in the string of numbers.  He waited a few moments, wondering if he’d missed any numbers, then sat back in his chair when he heard the longer American ringtone buzz through his phone. 

“Arlington County Police,” came a distinctly Southern woman’s voice over the line. 

“This is Detective Sergeant Ray Miles with the London police,” he said.  “I need to speak with one of your detectives about a missing person and possible homicide.” 

The rest of the team, who had gathered around him, all exchanged looks.  Homicide? 

“One moment,” the voice said. 

Miles picked up a pen and held it at the ready while he waited to be connected, ignoring the questioning looks of the detectives staring at him. 

“Detective Paul Tyler, Homicide,” came an equally Southern voice, though decidedly more male. 

“DS Miles, London Police,” Miles introduced himself gruffly. 

“You got a body of ours?” Tyler asked without preamble. 

“Of a sort,” said Miles vaguely.  “We’ve got a man claiming to be a priest from Arlington, but it doesn’t feel right.  Had any clergymen disappear on you recently?” 

“Depends.  Who’s he saying he is?” 

“Robert Haskins, Catholic priest,” Miles responded.  “He got himself involved in one of our inquiries.” 

“Yeah, I recognize the name,” Tyler said.  “Hold on a minute.” 

Miles tapped the pen on his desk as he waited.  He could hear muffled voices, but couldn’t make out any words, though someone was clearly angry. 

“Miles,” Tyler said, his voice clear again. 

“Yeah.” 

“Can I call you back?  About an hour?  We’re sitting on a guy we need to question and I’ll have to go through my files to get you what you’re looking for.” 

Miles grimaced, not wanting to put it off. 

“Yeah, as soon as you can,” he said before giving the American detective the number to call him back.  As soon as he hung up the phone, he directed his attention to Riley.  “Get on with the Catholic Church in Arlington and find out if they have two priests named Robert Haskins.” 

Riley gave her sergeant an odd look, but obeyed all the same.  There wasn’t much use questioning Miles when he was like this.  She got on her computer to find the phone number.  Her call yielded even less a result than Miles’, as she was transferred to the Priest Personnel office only to be directed to leave a voicemail.  She looked at her watch and counted back the hours on her fingers.  They must have been away at lunch. 

Riley hung up after she’d left her message and looked to Miles.  The room remained silent for some time before the tension eased and the waiting began.  Each detective busied themselves with some task or another, waiting for at least one phone to ring. 

A little over an hour later, Miles’ phone rang, silencing the room once more.  He quickly answered. 

“DS Miles.” 

“We found the body of Robert Haskins in the front yard of a church a year ago,” Tyler began, as if their conversation hadn’t been interrupted.  “Mutilated to hell and back.  You think your guy is the perp?” 

“I’ve got a hunch,” answered Miles.  “Can you send us your file?  We’ve had two priests killed and left in churchyards in under a month.” 

“Well, shit,” said Tyler.  “Looks like we all caught a break.  Some of these weird fuckers get off on getting involved in the case.” 

“Yeah,” Miles agreed.  “They do.” 

“So where am I sending this file?” Tyler asked.  “Don’t have much in it, but you might find something.” 

“Whitechapel,” said Miles.  

Riley’s phone suddenly started to ring.  She picked it up immediately. 

“Whitechapel?” Tyler repeated.  “You mean, Jack the Ripper Whitechapel?  You guys must see crazy shit all the time.” 

Miles wished he could say no.  They had only caught fairly straightforward cases until Chandler showed up.  He vaguely listened to Riley trying to extract the information she needed without giving the details of the case. 

“We get our fair share,” Miles hedged, needing to get the news he had to the said bearer of “crazy shit.” 

“Well, I’ll get that file out to y’all right away.” 

“Thanks,” said Miles.  “You’ll be the first to know if we catch a break.” 

“Good huntin’,” said Tyler before there was a click signaling that he had hung up. 

Miles rolled his eyes.  _Americans_. 

“We’re gonna be getting some important files in, so keep your eyes on your e-mail,” said Miles as he hung up the receiver.  Riley was still on the phone, but it looked like she’d gotten what she needed.  Moments later, she too had answers. 

“No one current,” she said.  “They had one, but he died last year.” 

“He was _murdered_ last year,” Miles corrected her, already striding purposefully toward the door and ignoring the questions of the team.  

Miles made it down the stairs to the holding cells in record time.  Emma had been locked up for over an hour, but Chandler had remained, loitering near the entrance to the corridor of cells. 

“Sir, he’s not Haskins,” wheezed Miles, totally out of breath.  Chandler’s eyebrows drew together in his confusion. 

“Miles, what are you talking about?” 

The sergeant had to take a few deep breaths before he could begin speaking again. 

“I just spoke to the Arlington police,” he explained.  “They had a Robert Haskins turn up dead, same as Garnet and Southwell.  There ain’t anyone else in that diocese with that name.  Our guy’s an impostor.” 

Chandler stood motionless and silent in thought. 

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Miles prompted him. 

“Pardon?” Chandler asked. 

“Go get that girl out of her cell!” He barked at his boss. 

Chandler jumped at the command, but complied without comment. 

The pair followed the guard back to the cell in which Emma was being held and waited as the door was unbolted.  Miles saw Emma’s head snap up when the door was swung open.  Tears were streaming down her face and there was unmasked terror in her eyes. 

“There’s been a mistake,” said Chandler apologetically. 

Emma sat for a moment, fairly shocked at the turn of events. 

“You’re goddamn right there has been!” Emma suddenly blurted out angrily.  She wasn’t usually one to use profanity and certainly not directed toward officers of the law.  And _definitely_ not toward devastatingly attractive officers of the law who she fancied and who seemed to fancy her, but she was fairly sure the situation called for it. 

“I understand you are upset,” Chandler said in a soft voice, trying to calm her.  An attempt which failed in spectacular fashion. 

“You – you have no idea how upset I am!” She screeched at him, still standing in the cell.  “What just happened, it’s taken ten fuh – fucking years off my life!” She continued to yell, stuttering over the curse she had successfully removed from her vocabulary over the years. 

Miles could only stand back and watch, fairly amused, as the normally dignified woman screamed obscenities as his boss.  Miles wasn’t sure if Chandler was taking it on the chin or too shocked to respond.  The officer on duty remained likewise silent, deferring to the highest ranking detective for his cues.  He supposed that as long as she wasn’t hitting him, there wasn’t anything for him to do. 

“Can I go home now?” Emma asked after her tirade, finally lowering her voice even as the sharp edge remained.  It was somehow worse than the yelling, Chandler decided. 

“Yes,” was all he said in response.  It seemed to anger her even more, but she clenched her jaw and stomped out the cell, passing him without a word. 

Chandler stood motionless and watched her go.  In any other circumstance, Miles would have urged him to go after her, but given her current emotional state, he wasn’t sure what she would do if Chandler tried to plead his case with her. 

“Bullets do more damage, do they?” Chandler asked quietly, his eyes still locked on Emma. 

Miles looked up at Chandler and back to Emma, saying nothing.  He took the handkerchief from his pocket and erased Emma’s name from the chalkboard affixed to the wall beside the cell door.  It was a shame it wouldn’t be so easy to erase the experience from Emma’s memory.


	6. 29 November

Nearly a month had passed after the disaster of Emma’s arrest and subsequent release and they were no closer to finding the counterfeit priest who had attempted to frame her.  The only thing that seemed to be coming their way were more memorials of martyrs’ deaths.  In just two days’ time, they could be looking at three more bodies lying in pieces in the morgue. 

The team was assembled in the Incident Room; Chandler was doing his best to rally the beleaguered detectives under his command. 

“Today is November 29th,” Chandler stated, perhaps unnecessarily.  “This is the memorial of the execution of Cuthbert Mayne.  Now, both of the previous deaths were connected, at least in name, to the memorial on which they were killed.  According to the records of the Archdiocese of Westminster, there are no priests with the surname Mayne.  That does not mean that we can’t expect a murder to occur before the day is out.” 

Chandler glanced around the room, taking in the faces of his detectives.  None of them were looking forward to the coming month.  The first two weeks of December alone held three memorial dates. 

“We’ve done our best to try to educate the priests here about the situation.  They are all aware of the man claiming to be Father Haskins, but we have had no further contact from him since the funeral of William Garnet.” 

They had also, much to Chandler’s chagrin, had no further contact from Emma.  But he could not dwell on that now. 

“On December 1st, we are looking at the memorials of Edmund Campion, Alexander Briant, and Ralph Sherwin,” he continued, tapping each name on the whiteboard as he named them.  “While no priests have the surname Briant, there is a Father Alexander Campion and a Monsignor Edward Sherwin.  They have agreed to let us post uniforms outside their homes and offices on the 30th of November and December the 1st.” 

Chandler nodded.  It was all he had, and it wasn’t much.  The mayor was not helping his stress levels and nor were the powers that be of the Metropolitan Police Service.  A result is what he desperately needed, preferably one in which the perpetrator was brought in alive and remained so through a trial.  He had not brought a single murderer to face justice since his unlikely appointment to his current post five years previous.  His superiors were finally losing their patience and their confidence in him. If he were honest, Chandler was surprised he’d lasted this long.  But if he could not bring this case to a successful conclusion, he was fairly sure his particular brand of investigation and research would no longer be tolerated. 

“What are we going to do about tonight, sir?” Miles asked quietly as he fell in step beside Chandler, who was trying to make his escape to his office. 

“I don’t know,” he answered with a sigh.  “Even if we could figure out where the body would be disposed of, and that would be a miracle in and of itself, we still don’t know who would be taken and where these murders are taking place.” 

“And with Haskins in the wind…” Miles added.  “His face has been plastered in every police station between here and Hillingdon.  Nothing.” 

“He entered the country on a fake passport, one good enough that no one even questioned it,” said Chandler.  “With the kind of resources he must have, we will be lucky to find him until he wants to be found.” 

“Why would he want to be found?” Miles asked.  “He’s a murderer, he knows he’ll go down for it.” 

“But he thinks what he’s doing is just, that it’s God’s will,” Chandler observed.  “And he’ll want to continue his work until it’s done.  After that, he may feel like he has served his purpose and will just turn himself in.” 

“That’s good of him,” Miles remarked with a grimace. 

In the silence, Miles shifted uneasily, as if he were struggling over what to say next.  It was an unlikely tick from the seasoned sergeant and it put Chandler on edge. 

“For God’s sake, Miles, just say it,” he snapped at last. 

“You should call her,” Miles came clean, no need to specify who “her” was. 

Chandler pursed his lips and raised an eyebrow.  He reached into his pocket to withdraw the pot of Tiger Balm and irritably rubbed a dab on each temple.  The irritability came less from Miles’ suggestion in and of itself and more from the fact that Chandler knew he was right.  Emma was a valuable resource in the investigation.  As gifted a researcher as Buchan was, he didn’t have the kind of instant recall of the history – or, perhaps more importantly, of the current priests’ connection to it – that Emma had. 

“She hasn’t called once,” Chandler very nearly pouted, though knowing all the same that it was a lost cause. 

Miles rolled his eyes. 

“Did you apologize?” 

Chandler’s silence was all the answer Miles needed. 

“Look, you’re callin’ her to make sure that more priests don’t get killed.  This is important,” he insisted.  

Miles was loathe to bring in outsiders onto cases, but they had no leads and nothing but a list of dates on which murders could occur.  The Ripper was never far from his mind, but the futility they were facing in this case was distressingly reminiscent of that first case he had worked with Chandler.  There was a list of dates and a profile of the kind of person who would be targeted, but nothing further than that.  It was further worrying that they had even less to go on now than they’d had with the Ripper, who at least had very precise dates and locations he was working with. 

“Right,” said Chandler with some finality.  

Taking that as acquiescence, Miles gave Chandler a nod of approval before going back to his desk, taking care to shut the door behind him. 

Chandler sat down at his desk, removed his watch and placed it in its proper spot.  He had saved Emma’s phone number in his phone, but only her mobile number.  Given the circumstances, he thought it best to go the more official route of phoning her office.  He retrieved the card from the file and punched the numbers into the landline phone on his desk. 

“Liturgy Office,” came a woman’s voice from the other end.  Clearly not Emma, if the Irish lilt was anything to go by.  Emma, by contrast, had only a somewhat generic BBC accent.  The kind that suggested she might have once had a different accent and wanted to hide her origins.  He'd seen it often enough in his school days; Northerners were treated especially cruelly by their classmates owing almost entirely to their regional accents.

“This is DI Joseph Chandler with Whitechapel Police.  I am calling to speak with Emma – Emma Parker.” 

“One moment, please,” the woman said. 

Chandler mentally cursed himself for the hitch in his voice.  He sounded pathetic.  He straightened as he heard someone come on the line. 

“Dr. Parker is currently unavailable,” came the same Irish voice. 

He slouched. 

“Could you have her return my call as soon as possible?” Chandler asked.  “This concerns an ongoing murder inquiry.  And I – her insight would be very helpful.” 

“Does she have your details?” 

“Yes,” he said. 

“I will let her know of the urgency of the situation as soon as she as she is out of her meeting,” the woman informed him. 

“Thank you.” 

“You’re welcome.  Have a good day, Inspector,” the woman said before hanging up the phone. 

Chandler held the phone for a moment before placing the receiver back in its cradle.  His hand lingered.  As he stared blankly at his hand resting on the phone, he wondered if Emma was really in a meeting or if she had simply told her secretary to tell him she was. 

With that thought, he quickly removed his hand from the phone, balled it into a fist, and then proceeded to rub more Tiger Balm on his temples.  This was ridiculous.  He was a detective inspector running a murder inquiry, not a teenage boy trying to chat up his crush. 

To try to remind himself of this fact, Chandler stood purposefully from his desk and left his office to spend some time in contemplation of the whiteboard.  He picked up a marker, though he had no intention of writing anything.  There was something about the action of doing so, perhaps tricking himself into thinking he had a purpose, had more information to help flesh out the case.  It was, of course, the mere illusion of progress, but it was better than nothing at all. 

The photos were gruesome.  Though the crime scenes themselves had been relatively bloodless, due to the killer having committed his deeds elsewhere before disposing of the remains, the jagged cuts and gaping wounds were enough to turn any man’s stomach.  Hardly a recognizable feature remained – these bodies, these men had been completely dehumanized. 

Chandler reviewed, for the hundredth time, everything they had on William Garnet’s case.  He turned then to John Southwell.  Like Garnet, perhaps mercifully, the man had little family.  But he had lived in community with his fellow Jesuits.  When they had gone to the residence to speak with the five other priests living there, Chandler could sense their fear.  These men knew the history as well as anyone and they were very well aware how centrally their order figured in it.  He assured them as well as he could, told them to change their routines and, if possible, refrain from any public remarks about the relationship between the Catholic Church and secular society.  The latter was an odd request, but one that could potentially save their lives. 

Unlike the general public, who were not made aware of the connection between these deaths and the memorial dates, the priests of the diocese, and many more lay Catholics besides, were immediately mindful of the significance.  And they knew what dates lay ahead.  Whoever had done this, they knew, hadn’t simply vanished, never to be heard from again.  He was waiting. 

And, of course, priests hadn’t been the only ones to be martyred at the hands of the English crown.  Just because the killer had thus far confined himself to clergy did not mean that he wouldn’t expand his horizons.  Any Catholic in the country whom the killer felt wasn’t doing justice to the memory of the martyrs was a potential target. 

Chandler knew that both Miles and Buchan were Catholic, though how devout either of them was remained unclear.  He wondered how this affected them, or if it did any more so than any of the other bizarre and brutal murders they’d investigated. 

He had no idea how long he stood staring at the board.  The hustle and bustle of the Incident Room and station continued around him, but he took no notice of it and, he presumed, nor they of him.  He was only snapped out of his study when someone grabbed his arm.  He jerked away reflexively. 

“Sir, there’s an Emma Parker on line 2 for you.  She said she was returning an urgent call,” one of the uniformed officers informed him. 

Chandler nodded at the man, though the “man” in question was more boyish in appearance than Kent, and returned to his office.  He closed the door securely behind him.  Chandler took a deep breath and exhaled, then picked up the phone. 

“DI Chandler,” he said, hoping he sounded authoritative. 

“J – DI Chandler, this is Emma Parker,” she said.  Her apprehension clear in her voice.  “You rang?” 

“Yes,” said Chandler.  “We need your help with the investigation.” 

“Now that you’ve realized whoever described me is probably the murderer?” Emma asked heatedly.  That escalated quickly. 

Chandler opened his mouth and snapped it shut.  He really should have spoken with her sooner. 

“Who was it, by the way?  Was it the priest?  Is a priest going around murdering his brother priests?” She asked in quick succession. 

“Emma!” He said suddenly, in just short of a shout. 

The other end of the line was silent. 

“I’m sorry.  I –” She sighed.  “I really _was_ in a meeting.” 

“Pardon?” Chandler asked, thrown by the quick change in both her tone and the subject. 

“When you called earlier, I was in a meeting, one that I could not have gotten out of.  Papal trips are – ” She stopped again and gave a tired laugh.  “That isn’t public knowledge yet.” 

“What isn’t?” He had been wrong-footed from the moment their conversation had begun.  It was beginning to wear thin. 

“Oh, what the hell,” she said with another sigh.  “Who are you going to tell?  The pope will be visiting next year, in part, I think, because he knows what’s going on right now and he feels it’s a question of solidarity, but he will also be canonizing John Henry Newman, so that will be the official story.  That was my meeting.” 

“The pope knows what’s happening here right now?  You mean the murders?” Chandler asked, incredulous. 

“He’s a Jesuit,” said Emma simply. 

Chandler supposed that explained everything, though it was unnerving to think that the pope was keeping tabs on his investigation.  It was almost enough to make a man count his thumbtacks. 

“You said you needed my help?” Emma prompted when Chandler did not reply. 

“Yes, I’m afraid we’ve hit a bit of a wall,” he admitted.  “There are memorials coming up and we have no way of knowing who might be considered a target.” 

“ _Today_ is a memorial,” said Emma flatly. 

“It is,” agreed Chandler. 

“Perhaps you should have thought to call sooner,” said chastised him.  

Knowing she was right and having previously experienced a taste of her temper, Chandler wisely refrained from responding. 

“If you hadn’t received that letter, I would have said you would be assured of a murder tonight,” Emma began, sounding eerily like Buchan.  “There is a question of whether or not, like Henry Garnet, Cuthbert Mayne’s full sentence was carried out.  But Mayne was also in Cornwall.  It’s possible the killer is confining himself to the martyrs in London.” 

“One can hope,” said Chandler, furiously taking notes.  He felt like he was in a history class. 

“The one that really worries me is the 1st,” Emma continued, the aforementioned worry clear in her voice.  “Edmund Campion and Ralph Sherwin were both Anglican ministers before their conversion.  Thanks to the Anglican Constitution, we’ve had a bit of an influx of conversions, particularly amongst the clergy.  Many of them fall along the same ideological line as Monsignor Garnet.  Conservative in every way and they tend to prefer a separation of the Church from the state, mainly because they haven’t liked what it’s meant to the Anglican communion over the past few years.  They’ve experienced firsthand how it can compromise theology.” 

“How many are there?” Chandler asked, feeling for the first time since he’d caught this case that he might be getting somewhere. 

“Three bishops – well, former bishops,” Emma corrected herself.  “They were all married and can only be priests.  They have nearly 100 priests now who have converted and there were entire parishes that came over in the beginning.  The Personal Ordinariate has been growing, but I don’t have as much contact with it as Father Ward has.  He is the office contact.  They also have their own liturgy and their own resources for it, so after the ordinations, we weren’t much needed.” 

One hundred priests.  There simply wasn’t the manpower to protect that many. 

“Do they all have families?” Asked Chandler.  It was bad enough that priests were being murdered, but to have wives and children added to the fall out? 

“Not all, but many do,” she answered.  “Those may be the ones targeted, because they aren’t living a celibate and chaste priesthood.  That very well could be seen as an affront to the martyrs.  _I’m_ still not entirely convinced that –” She stopped speaking.  Then, almost to herself, “I shouldn’t say that.  Focus on the former bishops.  Those were high profile conversions.  They gave up fairly lofty positions in the Anglican Communion to become Catholic.  I’ll have Father Ward send over their details.” 

“Thank you,” said Chandler, still trying to keep up with her monologue. “Is there anyone else?” 

Emma sighed. 

“Not that I can think of.  None that would be connected to that memorial anyway,” she said softly, sounding quite lost in thought.  “We do have a Monsignor Sherwin and, I think, a Father Campion in –” 

“We’ve already spoken to them,” Chandler assured her.  “They’ll have protection.” 

“Good…good,” said Emma, again more to herself than to Chandler.  “The locations are far too numerous to say with any certainty – to even narrow down.” 

“And it would be too late by that point,” Chandler remarked offhand, forgetting for a moment that he wasn’t speaking with a member of his team. 

Emma made a noise in her throat.  

“Why does he think he can do this?” She asked furiously, the reality of the situation settling in again as the conversation moved abruptly from history and theory to the very real consequences of what was happening.  “If he were as devout as he thinks he is, he would know there’s no…nothing gives him the right.” 

“I’m sorry, Emma, I shouldn’t have said that,” he apologized, though he knew her anger was not directed at him. 

“I can’t imagine,” she said, “how you have any faith left in humanity.” 

Emma had a knack for asking him questions he’d rather not answer.  Not that they were atypical questions, it was what most people asked him when they found out what he did and, perhaps more pointedly, _where_ he did it.  The difference with Emma was that he tended to tell her the truth, however unvarnished.  Though he still tried not to think about why he didn’t like answering those questions.  That line of thinking was precisely the kind of thing that Miles’ fish or poor McCormack’s dream of a bed and breakfast couldn’t erase. 

“I do this because I care about justice and the value of human life,” he answered sincerely.  It didn’t quite address the true thrust of her question, but it would have to do. 

“I am going to get Father Ward to send that information to you,” she said, forcing a brightness into her voice. 

“Yes, thank you.  Do you have my –” 

“Your e-mail address is on the card you gave me,” Emma interrupted.  

She suddenly seemed quite keen to get off the phone.  Chandler didn’t question it.  They all had work to be doing and he very much doubted she wanted to get any more drawn into his.  The pair said their goodbyes after Emma had extracted a promise from him that he would call her if anything happened.  It wasn’t something he should have done, and was a clear violation of policy, but he’d long ago thrown that book out – both literally and figuratively. 

Within minutes of hanging up his phone, Chandler received in his inbox an orderly list of names and contact details for the former bishops.  Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he was looking at a list of potential victims, but he tried to focus on the impeccable organization of the document. 

“Right,” he said to himself, picking up his phone.  It was a task anyone on the team could have carried out, but Chandler was keen to impress upon the men on the list how dangerous the situation was.  Having the head of an investigation call you, he reasoned, was much more likely to result in taking the threat seriously. 

By the time Chandler was dialing the number for the last priest on the list, he had no more understanding of what a Personal Ordinariate was – especially after realizing he’d spelt it wrong in his notes – but he was fairly sure he was adequately relating the reason for their suspicion, even if he could not go into any kind of detail. 

The last priest to be called was the former Right Reverend Edward Wilkinson.  His current title, Chandler read from his list, was Reverend Monsignor Edward Wilkinson, P.A.  Whatever that meant.  Chandler glanced at the address; Golden Square.  That was both a surprise and a relief.  Surprising because he had no idea any religious organizations would establish offices shoulder-to-shoulder with the numerous cinema and music industry offices in the area, but also a relief because it sat just outside the Square Mile.  The case was undeniably his, but having to encroach on the territory of the City Police was a headache he’d rather not encounter.  It was bad enough crossing boroughs, even with the blessing of his commander. 

The phone continued to ring.  It appeared the office was closed.  He looked at his watch; 6:00.  That would certainly why he was so hungry.  Chandler left a voicemail for the priest.  Still holding the receiver, he pressed down the switch hook and released it.  He dialed the home phone number listed. 

“Hello,” a woman answered. 

“Hello, this is DI Joseph Chandler with the Whitechapel Police, I am calling to speak with Monsignor Wilkinson,” he said. 

“Has something happened?” She asked, starting to sound worried. 

“No – Mrs. Wilkinson?” He tried, assuming the woman was the priest’s wife. 

“Yes, I haven’t heard from him all day,” she admitted.  “He is usually home by now or he’ll phone if he’s been held up.” 

He was beginning to feel a little anxious too. 

“Have you tried his mobile?” Chandler asked, covering his bases before he called in the cavalry. 

“It’s been going to voicemail for over two hours,” she was silent for a moment.  “Did you say Whitechapel?  Does this have something to do with those priests who died?” 

“Mrs. Wilkinson, we –” 

“It does, doesn’t it?” The woman was properly hysterical now, though Chandler could hardly fault her for it. 

“Mrs. Wilkinson, I am going to give you my mobile number,” he said in a placating tone.  “I am going to try your husband’s mobile, but I want you to call me the moment you hear from him.” 

“You should be out looking for him!” She shrieked. 

“If he does not answer his mobile, that is precisely what we will be doing,” he assured her, hoping it didn’t come to that.  

If the man had been taken, it was entirely possible they wouldn’t find him in time.  They still had no idea how much time passed between the abduction and the disposal of the remains.  There was a vague timeline for Garnet, but Southwell’s movements had not been so easily tracked.  Diary-keeping had not been a priority, it seemed. 

Chandler gave the crying woman his mobile number before hanging up and dialing the number for Wilkinson’s mobile.  As the ring tone buzzed in his ear, he struggled to keep his breathing even.  Chandler began to chastise himself for waiting so long to call Emma.  If he’d called her even a day or two earlier, he could have already ensured the safety of these men.  This blood would be squarely on his hands. 

He left a hasty voicemail and slammed the phone down.  Chandler rushed into the Incident Room and called the attention of his team. 

“After speaking with Dr. Parker, I was made aware of three potential targets,” he told them.  “I was able to warn two, but the last, Monsignor Edward Wilkinson, is unaccounted for.  His office is not answering and his wife has not spoken to him all day.  His mobile has been going unanswered for at least two hours.” 

“ _Wife?_ ” Miles interjected. 

“He was an Anglican bishop who converted,” Chandler said, sounding rather more informed on the matter than he truly was.  “We need to get to Golden Square and try to track his movements.  Miles and Kent, with me; Mansell and Riley, go to the home.” 

The team quickly grabbed phones, keys, and coats.  Just as they had all gotten out the door, Chandler’s mobile rang.  He quickly answered it. 

“Is this DI Chandler?” 

Whoever the man was, he was angry.  That much was clear. 

“Yes.” 

“This is Edward Wilkinson,” he stated hotly.  “Who do you think you are, terrifying my wife like that?” 

Chandler took in a breath and let it out. 

“Monsignor Wilkinson,” he said, relieved.  

The rest of the team stopped in their tracks when they heard him.  Saying nothing, he nodded at them.  

“You call her and suggest I’ve been murdered and then just hang up?” 

It wasn’t quite how the conversation had gone, but Chandler wasn’t going to fight him on it.  He was too glad to find he was alive. 

“We have reason to believe you may be a target,” he said carefully.  “I have already spoken to two of your colleagues, John Marley and Michael Peterson, and they have agreed to police protection until we believe the threat has passed.” 

“Have they?” Monsignor Wilkinson asked, sounding calmer, but still unconvinced. 

“They have and I strongly suggest that you do the same,” Chandler advised him.  “It will only be through the 2nd of December.” 

“It _is_ happening on the memorials, then, isn’t it?” 

Emma hadn’t been lying when she said diocesan gossip would ensure they were all aware of what was going on. 

“Yes,” admitted Chandler, no use denying that.  Perhaps it would prompt some greater vigilance amongst the clergy if they knew there was a particularly acute threat on a given day. 

“Campion and Sherwin were both Anglicans,” he said, the pieces clicking into place. 

“Yes,” Chandler said again.  “It is why we suspect you may be targeted.” 

“No offense, but how did _you_ work that out?” 

Chandler nearly laughed out loud. 

“Emma Parker is cooperating with our investigation,” said Chandler honestly.  There was no reason to deny her involvement.  

The priest hummed in acknowledgement. 

“She was very close to William,” Wilkinson said.  “And he to her.  A beautiful funeral.” 

“It was,” he agreed. 

“You were there?” The priest asked, sounding surprised. 

“I was.  Dr. Parker invited me.” 

Wilkinson hummed again. 

“Very well,” he said, seemingly out of the blue. 

It took Chandler a moment to realize he was agreeing to protection. 

“Uniformed police will be posted outside your home tonight and a schedule of protection over the next three days will be worked out tomorrow morning,” said Chandler, feeling like he was finally in control of a conversation. 

Another hum, followed by silence.  Monsignor Wilkinson was, evidently, a man of few words. 

“I must go calm down my wife,” he said at last. 

“Before you go, may I ask where you were this evening?” Chandler hoped his question would not provoke the man’s anger again. 

“Unscheduled confession,” was all he said. 

“Was it a man?” 

“I cannot answer that,” he answered firmly.  “Suffice it to say, a person approached me as I left my office and asked if I would hear their confession.  I can say no more.” 

Chandler didn’t press him, but he wasn’t going to drop the matter.  He made a mental note to collect CCTV footage from the area.  It wouldn’t be the first time their response time was tested by someone planning to commit a crime. 

“I understand,” he all but lied.  “Thank you, Monsignor.” 

“Thank you,” Wilkinson replied.  “And I…apologize for my anger.  My wife was in hysterics when I arrived home.” 

That was certainly a novelty.  Apologies were something police learned very quickly never to expect. 

“I should have found a better way to broach the subject with her,” said Chandler.  In actual fact, she’d been the one to mention the murders, but that was neither here nor there.  “Have a good evening, Monsignor.” 

“You as well DI Chandler, God bless.” 

With that, Chandler pressed a button to end the call on his phone and but it back in his pocket.  His team looked to him for their next move.  He hadn’t technically authorized any double shifts and it was well past the end of their previous shift, so he thought it best to send them home to sleep.  He could put in the request for the footage before going home and perhaps get some sleep himself, for once thinking he might be one step ahead of the killer.


	7. 1 December

They had a lead. For the first time in months, they had a solid lead. Given the affluence of the area, every inch of the Golden Square had high quality CCTV coverage. The expense of it had just been paid off with dividends. The man that had approached Monsignor Wilkinson to hear his confession was none other than their missing counterfeit clergyman, Robert Haskins. He had grown a beard and his hair was styled differently, but their high definition footage provided proof positive that it was the same man.

The investigator in Chandler wanted nothing more than to question Monsignor Wilkinson, but he knew he couldn't. Wilkinson had refused to even reveal the gender of his penitent, merely to ask him to break the seal of the confessional was nothing short of an insult, not to mention a waste of police time.

Chandler instructed Kent to collect all the CCTV footage he could of the area, slowly widening his search as he tracked Haskins' movements. It would be painstaking work, but it could lead them to some kind of fixed address for the man.

It was all wishful thinking, of course. Haskins had gone out of his way not to attract any attention for months, there was no way the man was ignorant of the cameras that would clearly catch him speaking to Monsignor Wilkinson. It was more than likely that he was taunting them; either the former bishop was his next target or Haskins wanted the police to think he was. There was no way of knowing which was the case until Haskins was caught or the next body was found. Chandler hoped it would be the former.

There was no headway in the search for Haskins' true identity. As satisfying as it was to a have a name on the whiteboard, Chandler could not ignore the quotation marks around it. The team worked under the assumption that Haskins was, in fact, American, but his prints had provided no clues. The files sent to them by the American detectives had likewise been of no help, as they had not even gotten as far as to identify a single person of interest. Reilly was thus tasked with working the Arlington case, hoping to find something that the Americans missed. Mansell was trying to track the man's movements since he'd stepped foot in Britain, while Kent was still busy sorting through the CCTV footage from the day Haskins met with Wilkinson.

Much to Miles' chagrin, he and Chandler were ensconced in the basement archives, listening to Buchan perform his biography of Edmund Campion. Miles wasn't sure why they always had to sit through this. Surely Buchan could just give the file to Chandler and be done with it.

"Are there any locations of special significance?" Asked Chandler as Buchan finished his monologue.

"Stonyhurst College would be an obvious location, but that is in Lancashire," said Buchan, looking at Chandler over his glasses. "Encased in glass at Stonyhurst are the ropes that were used in Campion's execution."

"Why would you keep something like that at a school?" Asked Chandler, mildly disgusted by the idea.

"It is a Jesuit college," said Buchan. "And those ropes are considered second class relics. On the feast day of St. Campion, they are placed on the altar for Mass."

"The killer is staying in London, though," Miles interjected. "Where could he be in _London_?"

"I cannot say with any certainty," Buchan responded. "Like all the martyrs, the Tower, Tyburn – these places hold meaning. Campion _did_ come here in the course of his ministry, but Oxford would certainly be more –"

"So what you're saying is you have nothing," said Miles before turning to Chandler. "Boss, we have some real police work that needs seeing to."

Chandler gave Miles a sharp look before turning back to Buchan.

"Keep us informed if you find anything," he said, following Miles toward the stairs.

Miles was already in fine form by the time they reached the first landing.

"The locations haven't been tied specifically to each martyr," Chandler said in defense of Buchan. "St. Mary's had nothing to do with Garnet and Farm Street is relevant only because it is a Jesuit church, but it didn't even exist when Southwell was executed."

Miles continued to grumble unabated, while Chandler brooded over the task that lay ahead of them. The number of churches, memorials, plaques, and windows that had something to do with the martyrs in London alone made it difficult to narrow down the options the killer had before him. Chandler could already feel the panic start to force its way into the edges of his mind. He needed to change his shirt, but settled for irritably dabbing Tiger Balm on his temples. The shirt would have to wait.

Monsignor Edward Wilkinson had a routine. More to the point, he _liked_ having a routine. Where others found monotony and boredom, he found order and peace. After having uprooted both himself and his wife from all they had known upon his conversion, he had just come to settle into his new role as Ordinary.

Now the police were asking him to change everything he did and when he did it. It was a fair request, of course. He had no wish to end up like his departed brother priests. It was his wife he was most worried about, truth be told. She was easily upset and the current situation could distress even the calmest of people. After everything he had put her through with his decision to convert, he wasn't sure she could take any more turmoil and upheaval.

It was good of the detectives to come and speak with them that morning. From the looks of the older man, sleep was a luxury they could not afford. And from the look of his own wife, she didn't seem to mind the situation at all now that she'd met DI Chandler.

Chandler pulled Wilkinson aside as a uniformed office went over Mrs. Wilkinson's plans for the day.

"We are almost certain that you have been chosen as the next victim," he said in a low voice.

Wilkinson's eyebrows knitted in confusion.

"I thought that had already been determined."

"You were _one_ of the potential victims," Chandler explained. "However, the man who asked you to hear his confession was the killer."

The priest's breath came out in a rush, clearly shaken by the knowledge that he'd met the man who was planning his death.

"I assume you remember what he looks like? How his voice sounds?" Chandler continued.

Wilkinson wordlessly nodded.

"That's good," he assured the priest. "If you see him or receive a phone call, get to your detail immediately."

"Yes, yes of course."

Wilkinson quickly straightened up and forced a brightness into his face when he saw his wife eyeing them suspiciously.

"Not a word to her," he said in an undertone to Chandler before moving across the room to join her.

With a stern word to the officers who would be serving as the protection detail for the day, Chandler and Miles were off back to the precinct. They spoke very little in the car, but the tension was palpable. Miles resolved to keep an extra close eye on his boss for the remainder of the day. They'd had their fair share – and maybe a little more besides – of stressful cases, but this one had clearly become personal for Chandler.

The moment they stepped foot in the Incident Room, Reilly stood and ran to the printer.

"Skip!" She called when she'd read the print out she was now holding.

"What do you have?" Chandler asked, quickly overtaking Miles as they met her by the printer.

She handed him the piece of paper.

"Robert Haskins' real name," said Reilly, trying to temper her sense of triumph.

"Luke Dearbourne," Miles read out.

"The Arlington detectives had never gotten hits on his prints in Virginia or in national databases, but they hadn't checked other state databases that had to be done on an individual basis," Reilly explained hurriedly.

"Guess that course on international investigations did some good then, didn't it?" Miles asked. "Where was he from, then?"

"Maryland," answered Reilly. "He'd had a background check done when he started studying at Mount Saint Mary's."

"A background check to go to school?" Chandler asked.

"Not just any school, sir. _Seminary_."

" _Of course,"_ said Chandler, the entire puzzle starting to make a little more sense.

"The school wasn't keen on telling me much, but when I explained the circumstances, they said he'd been dismissed for 'rigidity'," Reilly continued. "I did some more digging and came up with his university studies. He studied history at Loyola University in Maryland and became obsessed with the Reformation. It was years ago, but his academic advisor still remembers him because of the way he reacted every time his reading of events was challenged."

"So he develops an obsession with the history of the period and then tries to become a priest," Chandler summarized. "The dismissal from seminary must have been the trigger."

"He starts blaming other priests for turning the Church against him," said Miles, picking up Chandler's thread.

"The martyrs are just the story he's used to justify the violence," Chandler added. "But that obsession must be how he ended up here."

Chandler looked up at the map that marked out where the bodies had been found.

"And it's why he's staying in London," he said suddenly.

"What do you mean?" Miles asked, looking between his boss and the whiteboard.

"He's American," said Chandler. "He can't drive here and London affords him anonymity."

Reilly studied the map.

"How is he moving the bodies?"

"Could he have an accomplice?" Miles suggested. "Someone with a van. It could also be where he's dismembering them."

Chandler shifted his weight as he considered Miles' theory.

"I don't think so," he concluded at last.

"You got any better ideas, _sir_?" Miles asked hotly.

"He's a loner, Miles," Chandler argued. "This is his quest and he's not going to want anyone to take credit from him. No, he'll be doing this alone."

"That doesn't explain how he's moving around the whole bloody city with the dead bodies of grown men."

" _I know that,"_ said Chandler warily. "But I don't want us fixating on a theory that doesn't fit the facts. We need to consider alternatives. He's obviously not using cabs, buses or trains. How else could he be getting around?"

"He could be impersonating someone else and driving on their license," Miles said, not willing to let go of the thought that Haskins was getting around the city by car.

"How would you propose we prove that?" Asked Chandler with a sigh.

"Glad you asked, sir," Miles responded sarcastically before turning to Reilly. "Reilly, look at the congestion charges that haven't been paid since the murders began. Run anyone who hasn't paid against missing persons and check on the ones that happened close to places where murders have already happened."

Miles turned back to his boss with a self-satisfied smirk.

"Yes, well, we'll see," Chandler muttered. "Mansell, how far have you gotten?"

Haskins had been covering his tracks very well. Mansell had scarcely been able to trace him pass the initial customs check when he entered the country months before. There was no flat, no mobile, no bills, no hotel rooms – _nothing_. In a moment of what he'd thought might be inspired brilliance, he'd started checking under the names of the martyrs. Mansell had come up with nothing but dead end after dead end.

Kent's report was no more encouraging. Once leaving the Golden Square, Haskins had seemingly vanished into thin air. For a city with as many cameras as London had, it was a feat bordering on the impossible.

Finding the man's real identity was a big break, Chandler knew. The lack of progress in finding him in their own city, however, was beginning to drive him up the wall. The information and theories they could draw out of the given evidence was beginning to wear thin. Chandler had heard detectives before grudgingly admit that they would need the perpetrator to commit another crime in order to catch them. But more evidence is not what Chandler and his team needed. They needed luck. And that was something that always seemed to be in short supply in Whitechapel.

Monsignor Wilkinson had tried to go through his day as normally as possible. It hadn't helped that his wife was calling him every hour on the hour, sounding more frantic as the day wore on. He had himself started to calm some once he'd gotten to the office. The police presence, while it seemed to put his colleagues on edge, was reassuring. Everywhere he looked, he saw the distinctive custodian helmet of the Metropolitan Police.

As the afternoon wore on, he had been able to settle somewhat into his normal rhythm and get some real work done. That was, until a loud banging on his door startled him so badly he dumped tea over his computer keyboard. It would have to wait. The knocking was as insistent as it was loud.

"Come in," Wilkinson called, doing what he could to mop up the tea with a tissue.

"Monsignor," the policeman said upon entering. He wasn't one of the officers he'd met that morning, but they had said there would be a shift change. This one had blond hair and a thick Yorkshire accent.

"What is it?" Wilkinson asked, the man seemed to be on edge.

"It's your wife," he got out before Wilkinson stood and was already on his way out the door.

"This way," the policeman said, pointing toward the back staircase. "Better to keep you out of the square, too many points of entry out front."

The policeman's voice was troublingly familiar. As if he knew the tone of it, but not the accent. Then he thought back to what Chandler had told him just that morning. He remembered the voice. But just as that moment of realization dawned, his world went black.

Chandler had gotten the call during the height of rush hour. Police siren or no, it had taken him longer than he'd liked to make it across the city. Monsignor Wilkinson had disappeared and here he was, trying to edge around a double decker that was blocking an intersection. Miles urging him to try to breathe normally was not helping things.

By the time they'd finally reached Golden Square, Chandler had developed an anger he was sure he'd never felt before. They had assigned a level of protection that was rivaled only by royalty, _how_ had Wilkinson been allowed to simply vanish?

It seemed the answers from those serving on the protection detail were no more forthcoming than those from Chandler's own team. The officer who'd been posted outside Wilkinson's office had been hit so hard in the head that he hardly remembered his own name, much less recall what had precipitated the blow.

Despite the lack of answers, Chandler insisted that he and Miles be the ones to inform Wilkinson's wife that he'd disappeared. Having already tried to phone her husband numerous times, the woman was in a state the moment they arrived.

" _Where is he! Where is my husband?"_ She asked shrilly before the detectives had even crossed the threshold.

"Mrs. Wilkinson, we are doing our best to find out where your husband's been taken –"

Chandler winced as the woman gasped loudly at his choice of words.

"You know he's been taken?" She asked immediately.

"Given the circumstances under which he disappeared, we are forced to conclude that, yes, he was taken by force," Chandler admitted.

Miles saw it coming, but Chandler had been caught completely unaware. Mrs. Wilkinson hit him hard enough that the red handprint was still visible as they drove back to the precinct.

There was a flurry of activity when they arrived. All available screens had various CCTV loops running on them, with anxious detectives hoping to catch a glimpse of the priest or the killer. Chandler and Miles spent their afternoon and evening interrogating every member of the protection detail who could be spared from Mrs. Wilkinson's side. No one had seen anything amiss.

Chandler did not go home that night. Most of his team had tried to insist on keeping vigil with him, but he issued an order that they go home for the night. They had families to see to – most of them did, at any rate. While he, he had his work. In order to keep the panic at bay, he spent the small hours re-watching CCTV footage and drinking green tea. It wasn't productive, but with so many unknowns hanging over his head, there wasn't a chance he would try to sleep.

At nearly five in the morning, Chandler decided to ready himself for the day. Pulling out a fresh shirt and a freshly laundered suit he'd took to keeping in his office, Chandler shaved and washed. The phone rang just as he straightened his tie.

"DI Chandler," he answered, his voice slightly raspy.

The voice on the other end was matter of fact, simply relaying the message that had been given to them. The blood drained out of Chandler's face as he listened. Managing to thank the desk sergeant for the information in a steady voice, he slammed the phone down and raced down the stairs to his car.

Miles was already dressed when Chandler arrived.

"What's happened?" He asked when he opened the door to find his boss already rushing him out the door.

"Wilkinson," was the only answer he got. He nodded decisively, kissed his wife, and strode quickly to Chandler's car.

They made uncharacteristically quick time to Southwark, Miles calling the rest of the team as Chandler weaved his way across the river on Tower Bridge. Neither could ignore the symbolism. Uniformed police had already cordoned off the area when they arrived.

"DI Chandler, this is DS Miles," Chandler said quickly, holding up his warrant card to gain entrance to the cathedral.

Though the exterior had a sort of dingy appearance, which Chandler suspected had much more to do with London smog than it did neglect, the soaring stone columns that lined the central aisle toward the altar were magnificent. Not that he paid those columns or the beautiful stained glass that surrounded him much mind. He steeled himself before making his way up the aisle toward the altar.

The body had been crudely reconstructed in the large wooden chair directly behind the altar. A handwritten note was pinned to the torso. Trying to ignore the gaping hole in the gut, out of which the man's entrails had been pulled, Chandler leaned forward to read:

> _The expense is reckoned,_
> 
> _the enterprise is begun._
> 
> _It is of God._
> 
> _It cannot be withstood._
> 
> _So the faith was planted_
> 
> _so it must be restored._

Chandler swallowed thickly and straightened.

"What does it mean?" Miles asked, having appeared silently at Chandler's elbow.

He started before regaining his composure.

"I don't know," he said. "But I think we know who might."

Before his sergeant could answer him, Chandler was already pulling out his mobile phone and retreating to the vestibule. Chandler had not forgotten that he had promised to keep Emma in the loop, however inadvisable it was to be called her before the deceased's wife.

"What's happened?" Came her first, urgent words the moment she answered the phone. That she had echoed Miles so exactly would have been funny in any other circumstance.

"Monsignor Wilkinson," he said, stopping as he heard the quick exhalation of breath on the other end of the line.

"Where?" Emma asked, clearly sounding like she was making an effort to pull herself together long enough to offer what help she could.

"St. George's Cathedral," he answered.

"Southwark," she said to herself. "In the churchyard again?"

"No, he was left in a chair near the altar," said Chandler, no need to go into specifics as to how that looked.

"In a chair?" She repeated. "Directly behind the altar? Does it have a coat of arms on it?"

"Yes," said Chandler carefully, knowing it was significant but not yet why.

"That's the seat of the bishop," she said with a sigh. "The word 'cathedral' comes from ' _cathedra_.' It means 'seat' or 'chair'. That chair represents the authority of the bishop."

"Why this cathedral, though? Why not Westminster?" He asked, thinking it would make far more sense to make a political statement like this closer to the seat of secular power.

"Southwark was the first cathedral since the Reformation. He may also be making comment on the multiplicity of styles of liturgy celebrated there. The lack of uniformity is probably an issue for him."

It was an issue for Emma as well, but she had no intention of revealing that she shared ideology with a murderer. She'd already been accused of it once before and had no interest in spending another second in a cell.

"There was a note…with the body," Chandler said while making note of everything Emma had said.

"What did it say?"

Chandler, having written the text in his notebook, read it back to her.

_"Jesus,"_ she said in a low, harsh whisper. "Well, you have a precedent, of sorts. And it would also give some reason for his choosing Southwark. That text is part of Campion's Brag."

"Edmund Campion?"

"Yes, it was addressed to the Privy Council in an effort to assure them that Campion was not in England for political reasons, just as a missionary," Emma explained. "He says explicitly in the note that he didn't mean it as a brag or challenge, but he also wrote that they would persist while they had a man left to enjoy Tyburn. That particular line is followed by what was in the note."

"What has it to do with Southwark?"

"That connection is more tenuous. It also suggests that he knows the history _very_ well," said Emma. "Thomas Pounde, who is said to have convinced Campion to put his intentions in writing, was imprisoned, among other various places, at Marshalsea."

As impressed as Chandler was with Emma's instant recall of the history, the past was not helping them solve the crimes of the present.

"Placing that note on the seat of a bishop is very telling," Emma continued, unaware of Chandler's frustration and equally unaware that she was about to calm it. "He is saying that this is what they should be teaching. I think he sees himself as issuing a teaching _ex cathedra_. You need to make sure all bishops in London – Southwark _and_ Westminster – are protected, especially the cardinal and the archbishop."

"Cardinal?" Chandler asked. "I thought he wasn't –"

"There was a consistory," said Emma shortly. "Hang on a second."

Chandler could hear papers being shuffled, followed by a crash of what sounded like quite heavy books.

"Shit," came Emma's voice, further away from the receiver than it had been. More shuffling followed, as well as the sound of the phone being juggled from hand to hand.

"Is everything –"

"Fine, fine," she said quickly, though sounding agitated. She heaved a sigh. "I've had to drag out all of my research on the martyrs to try and keep up with this. It's made a mess of my office."

"Keep up?"

"You didn't think I just…knew it all. Did you?" Emma asked. Despite the circumstances, there was a note of humor in her voice.

"Well, when you – that is to say –" Chandler stumbled over his words.

"Not that I'm offended, of course," she interrupted, the sound of papers in the background once more. The shuffling stopped. She spoke again. Her voice was serious and held an urgency that almost scared him: _"Protect the cardinal."_


	8. 1 December, II

_“Protect the cardinal.”  
_

“What did you find?” Chandler asked as he motioned for Miles to join him. 

“St. John Roberts was killed on December 10.  He was a Benedictine, as is our cardinal,” said Emma.  “He was all but forgotten for decades, but there was a huge service for his anniversary a few years ago.  This would be a big one for him.” 

He hummed his acknowledgement as he took notes.  Even over the phone, Chandler could tell she hadn’t finished speaking and was only waiting for him to catch up.  When she did begin to speak again, he felt a slight shiver go down his spine.  It was an odd sensation, but not unpleasant. 

“John Roberts was incredibly popular with the people of London.  He’d done a lot of work for the poor and demanded that his disembowelment occur after he’d already died,” she continued, the shuffling of paper continuing in the background.  “He was arrested after he said Mass and taken to Newgate in his vestments.  I think Haskins would find that image striking and may try to attack the cardinal while he says Mass.” 

“Is he –” 

“His secretary will have that information,” Emma assured him.  “He will celebrate Mass at some point that day.  It could occur anywhere in the diocese, but his schedule _is_ public, so it will not be hard for Haskins to figure out where.” 

He grimaced as he continued to write.  While he would make sure their security efforts were doubled while the cardinal celebrated Mass, Chandler had no intention of letting him out of sight of one of the officers for a single second of the day. 

A thought suddenly struck him as he consulted his notes.  There was another memorial in only four days’ time. 

“Nothing for John _Almond_?” 

There was a pause on the other end of the line. 

“No, I – I don’t think so,” Emma responded, sounding unsure of herself.  Chandler didn’t blame her for it.  He was certain that, like Buchan, she would blame herself were she to miss anything in the historical record that could have prevented a murder.  “He _is_ one of the forty, but I don’t know of any connections he could have to our…” 

She fell silent again. 

“Emma?” Chandler asked when the silence had stretched for perhaps too long. 

“I’m thinking,” she answered shortly.  “St. John Almond was known for his debates with Anglicans.  It’s said that he was chosen in particular to be executed after seven other priests managed to escape from Newgate.” 

“Chosen by whom?” 

“John King, the Bishop of London…or so the story implies,” Emma replied.  “If he were to act on this, it would not be one of the former Anglicans.  And it definitely would not be anyone who had helped with the ordinariate.  That was what Almond had been trying to do; convert Anglicans.” 

“But doesn’t the killer disagree with the – the ordinariate?” Chandler asked, the word still feeling odd in his mouth. 

“He disagrees with the Church allowing the married Anglican clergy to be Catholic priests,” she clarified.  “But he would view the enterprise as a whole as a good thing, as a first step in the reversal of the English Reformation.” 

“Were there any priests who made public remarks denouncing the conversions?” 

“Not if they wanted to keep their parish,” Emma answered with feeling.  “You don’t publicly denounce the pope and your bishop if you can help it.  There were some murmurs, of course.  The…kind of Catholic the Constitution brought in got a few hackles raised.” 

“I’m sorry, I don’t –” 

“Those who converted tended to be more conservative,” Emma interrupted.  “Progressives weren’t particularly pleased with the sudden influx of traditionalists.” 

Chandler chanced a glance at his sergeant, who was starting to look impatient. 

“Emma, can I – we have to –” Chandler stopped speaking.  He didn’t like that she was able to fluster him so, even when he was stood only one hundred feet from a crime scene.  He took a deep breath and released it slowly.  “If you think of something that could link one of your priests to John Almond, can you phone me?” 

“Of – of course,” Emma said, sounding a little thrown by Chandler’s abrupt change of demeanor. 

“It’s the crime scene, I really must –” 

“No, oh God, of course, I didn’t realize…” Emma trailed off, knowing that she wasn’t going to string a sentence together any time soon if she continued.  “Can you let me know once Alice has been told?  I would like to give her my condolences.” 

It took Chandler a moment to remember that Alice was Mrs. Wilkinson’s given name.  He hesitated to say that they had been lucky up to this point, but there had been a certain…blessing in the fact that the men who had been killed had not had wives and children.  Not that it made their murders any less tragic, but he was almost ashamed to admit that it made _his_ job easier not having to inform family members that their husband or father had been killed. 

Chandler ended his call with Emma and mentally shook himself before re-entering the church.  He needed to _focus_.  Pulling the jar of Tiger Balm out of his trouser pocket, he dabbed probably more than what was necessary on his temples.  The stringency of the menthol cleared his mind even as it made his eyes water. 

“What do we have, then?” Miles asked, following his boss back up the aisle.  The pair were careful to step on the metal plates with which the crime scene unit had lines the marble floor. 

“Campion’s Brag,” Chandler explained as he took the bagged note from the crime scene technician and held it up for Miles’ inspection.  “Now, according to Emma, this is part of a letter written by Edmund Campion.” 

“And what’s that got to do with this?” Miles further inquired, gesturing toward the carnage in the sanctuary. 

Chandler did his best to explain what Emma had told him.  He’d always been fairly good at assimilating and synthesizing the information given to him – it was what made him an effective investigator – but this case was stretching his abilities.  The details he’d always prided himself on keeping straight in his head could not be so easily compartmentalized without the theological and historical context that both Emma and, to a lesser extent, Buchan had at their fingertips. 

“So Haskins murdered him because he was married,” Miles summarized. 

“Well…yes,” Chandler replied rather dumbly. 

Miles knew that Chandler had a much deeper appreciation of the entirety of the story than he did.  He preferred his motives much like he preferred everything else in his life; simple, straightforward, unadorned. 

“It appears the dismemberment of this body was far more violent and frenzied than the previous,” Dr. Llewellyn called to the detectives from where she stood next to the altar. 

“Hurried, even?” Chandler asked, picking his way along the metal plates toward their medical examiner. 

“It could be described as such,” Llewellyn agreed, looking back at the body.  She turned to examine the wounds.  Chandler came to stand next to her as she gestured to one particularly jagged cut.  “On the previous victims, they appeared to be almost jointed; very clinical, clean cuts.  Here, the arms were torn from the sockets and the cuts are jagged.” 

“Monsignor Wilkinson was under police protection when he was taken,” Chandler told her, obligingly glancing at the wound before training his eyes on Llewellyn.  “Haskins was rushed this time, not like he was before.” 

Llewellyn hummed in agreement and nodded as she continued her examination. 

“Well, I don’t need to tell you that this is clearly the work of the same killer,” she said.  “We’ll finish up here and get him back to the morgue.  You’ll have my report by the end of the day.” 

Chandler nodded at her before rejoining Miles at the foot of the altar. 

“We’ve unsettled him,” said Chandler. 

“That ain’t always a good thing,” Miles reminded his boss. 

“But it does mean that we could stop the next one,” Chandler insisted. 

“Or force him to abandon this timeline of his.” 

Chandler sighed in response, knowing his sergeant was right.  It had happened before and it would undoubtedly happen again.  He could only hope that Haskins was so dedicated to the course of events he’d plotted out that he would start randomly killing Catholics throughout London. 

“Come on, Miles,” said Chandler, his voice and demeanor subdued.  “We have to tell the widow.” 

Miles looked up at Chandler before he, too, sighed and shook his head. 

“Right.” 

The car ride to the Wilkinson home was absolutely silent, with nothing more than the odd crackle emanating from the dispatch radio mounted on the dash. 

Chandler needn’t have said a word to the woman.  His face clearly said it all from the moment the Mrs. Wilkinson opened the door.  He’d had to move quickly to catch her crumbling figure in the doorway.  Miles closed the door behind the pair and followed them into the sitting room. 

“Mrs. Wilkinson,” Chandler began.  “I am so sorry to tell you this but your husband has been killed.” 

A fresh wail issued forth from the grieving woman. 

“What good are all these police if they could still get to my Edward!” She cried. 

Chandler shifted uncomfortably on the settee.  They hadn’t figured that out yet either. 

The remainder of the meeting was spent in turns comforting Mrs. Wilkinson and being asked questions they couldn’t answer.  She asked how her husband had been killed.  Before Chandler could open his mouth, Miles answered for him. 

“You don’t want to hear about that right now,” his gruff voice incongruously soft.  Mrs. Wilkinson tearfully agreed with him. 

By the time the two detectives left the house, the two Wilkinson children had arrived to comfort their mother.  After another silent car journey back to the precinct, they arrived with a message from Llewellyn to meet her in the morgue. 

“Did you find something?” Chandler asked hopefully, tying a blue plastic apron around his waist as he entered the morgue. 

Llewellyn looked up at him over her plastic safety glasses. 

“Your killer was _very_ rushed,” she said in a deadly serious voice. 

“What do you mean?” 

“The killer’s previous victims died as the result of strangulation prior to any mutilation occurring,” she began.  Then, gesturing to the limbs assembled on the table in the shape of a body, “That is not the case here.” 

Chandler felt the blood drain from his face as he glanced at Miles. 

“Are you saying –” Chandler began, unable to finish the sentence. 

“This victim died from blood loss, essentially,” Llewellyn confirmed his suspicions.  “There is evidence of strangulation, but upon closer inspection of the wounds and the pattern of clotting, he was still very much alive when dismemberment occurred. 

The bile rose in the back of Chandler’s throat and he put the back of his hand over his mouth to forestall the inevitable.  Taking deep breaths, he turned away from the body to try to compose himself.  Miles glanced at Chandler before moving closer to Dr. Llewellyn. 

“And the…rest?” Miles asked, gesturing awkwardly toward the splayed abdomen. 

“The rest,” Llewellyn began slowly, “occurred prior to dismemberment.” 

“Oh God,” Chandler wheezed before rushing for the toilets. 

Miles and Llewellyn watched him go. 

“I thought he –” 

“This one is getting to him,” said Miles quietly. 

By the time Miles made his way back to the Incident Room, the blinds had been drawn in Chandler’s office.  He was, hopefully, only washing and putting on a fresh shirt.  If that was the only manifestation of his compulsions that showed itself in the course of this investigation, they would be lucky indeed.  Miles heaved a sigh and turned toward the assembled detectives. 

“Alright lads,” he said before launching into a report on everything they’d learned. 

Chandler, meanwhile, was busy trying to keep his composure in the face of another murder he had no hope of stopping.  If Haskins _had_ chosen someone to serve as St. John Almond for the day, there was nothing they could do.  And even if they were able to identify the victim before any harm was done, Haskins had already proved himself capable of seamlessly slipping past their protection.  It seemed an impossible situation.  And if there was one thing that set Chandler off more than dirt and germs, it was standing in the face of a seemingly unsolvable case; a case that was spiraling out of control just as surely and quickly as his nerves. 

Placing his hands in the basin of water, Chandler tried to focus his breathing.  He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply through his nose.  His hands tightened into fists as he felt the anxiety squeeze his lungs.  Chandler’s jaw clenched painfully as he struggled against the loss of control.  His breaths came out in shallow pants as his hands shook in the cool water.  He fought the urge to scream, gritting his teeth to prevent any noise from escaping.

And then the moment seemed to pass.  His muscles relaxed slightly and he was able to breathe normally again.  Trying to regain his senses, Chandler splashed water on his face.  After drying off, he took a fresh shirt from the stack he kept in his cupboard – he was running low and would soon need to put in another order – and settled it around his shoulders.  By the time he came to his cufflinks, he was beginning to feel a little more in control of himself. 

Chandler tried not to think about how he might end up if he allowed another murder to occur.  Even as he straightened his tie, he could feel the chaos at the back of his mind threatening to take over.  He stamped his foot – childish, he was fully aware – as he silently scolded himself.  It did no good to go through his rituals to only let disorder reign the moment he was done.  He shook his head and adjusted his cuffs.  Good police work and a level head is what they needed right now, _not_ a mental breakdown. 

“Skip,” said Reilly suddenly, staring at her computer screen.  

Miles came to stand behind Reilly’s chair.  Almost immediately, he turned toward Chandler’s office. 

“Boss!” He called before turning back to the computer. 

Chandler quickly emerged from his office to join the rest of his team at Reilly’s desk.  He only hoped his team didn’t notice how very close he was to the edge.  He hadn’t felt this unsure about his abilities since the Ripper. 

“What is it?” 

“I ran unpaid congestion charges against the locations where the victims were left and got a hit,” Reilly explained, pulling up the grainy CCTV photo.  Chandler squinted at the dark image.  It was a basic white transit van with no identifying characteristics that he could spot.  “The van is registered to a Samuel Ellis, a housepainter based in Stepney.  Ellis doesn’t have any family and hasn’t been reported missing, but I spoke to his former employer who said he’d stopped showing up to work.  They thought he’d just run off with the van so they sacked him.” 

“I want every uniform and PCSO on the street looking for this van,” Chandler told Miles.  “Call it in as soon as they spot it, do not approach without _armed_ backup.” 

Miles was already striding to his desk to make the call.  His gruff voice carried around the Incident Room as the other four detectives continued to star rather vacantly at the image on Reilly’s computer screen. 

“Why did he keep the plates on it?” Kent mused aloud.  “Why not fabricate something?” 

“If he got pulled over for a routine traffic stop, he’d be able to pass himself off,” Mansell said.  “No missing persons report that would come up if his name was run.  Probably thought we wouldn’t figure it out.” 

When Miles rejoined them, Chandler approached the whiteboard.  The one thing he could do was work on ensuring that Haskins didn’t get anywhere near the cardinal. 

“In nine days, we have what could be a very important memorial for the killer,” Chandler began, picking up a marker.  “The memorial of St. John Roberts is on the 10th of December.  He was a Benedictine monk from Wales during the seventeenth-century.  According to Dr. Parker, this is an important point.  The current cardinal of the Archdiocese of Westminster is a Benedictine.  This may be Luke Dearbourne’s _coup de grâce_.” 

Chandler relayed the rest of Emma’s information to the weary detectives.  He was rather vividly reminded that this case wasn’t weighing down on him alone.  They all had families to go home to while this brutality fixed itself in their mind’s eye.  In a way, he was glad he didn’t have to try to navigate those waters.  It was hard enough to sustain a relationship, he imagined, but to do so while also maintaining a barrier between his home life and the vicious depths of cruelty he encountered in his job seemed impossible.  For all that Miles extolled the virtues of married life, Chandler also saw how his sergeant struggled to keep the darkness away from his family.  Ray Miles, Chandler was not, and he wasn’t sure he could be strong enough to maintain a façade of quietude. 

To be honest, he wasn’t even sure he _wanted_ to.  After Morgan and then the…parade of women who followed, it didn’t seem worth it.  Chandler recalled that he had once told Miles he was single because he didn't want to go through trying to accommodate someone else.  But it was more than that.  The women he knew, they were all hurt in one way or another after their contact with him.  It didn’t seem fair to put anyone else in danger.  _He_ had accepted these risks when he joined the force.  Well, perhaps he hadn’t quite envisioned precisely the kinds of risks he’d encountered since coming to Whitechapel, but he had always understood what this job could do to a man.  He’d seen it in his father, after all.  And that was something he wouldn’t wish on anyone, no matter how crushing the loneliness could feel at times.  While there was no denying that Emma Parker seemed a lovely alternative to that loneliness, it was that very quality that made him want to push her even further away.  The ghosts that kept their vigil in his life left very little room for anyone else.


	9. 10 December

Miles woke up that morning feeling more anxious than he could ever recall having been over the course of his many decades long career. If he were honest with himself, the feeling had begun ten days previous and had only grown worse since then. He mused to himself that he’d have a hell of a lot more patience with his boss if this was how he felt on a regular basis.

The preparations for the cardinal’s security had taken a lot out of the team. Chandler insisted that those on the security detail were hand-picked and that as few officers as possible knew the full scope of the operation. They didn’t need Haskins getting wind of what they’d planned. 

His wife Judy, knowing what kind of day he had ahead of him, took care of the children that morning as he showered and shaved. Miles spent the time thinking over their plan and its contingencies. There was nothing they hadn’t considered, he was sure of it. But then, he’d thought that too before Edward Wilkinson’s security was compromised and he was taken and murdered right under their noses.

Miles breathed out harshly and gripped the edge of the sink. If he kept this up, he was going to end up in Bedlam. Right alongside Chandler.

That was his other concern. Miles was certain Chandler would not be able to handle another bad hand in this investigation. At the rate he was going, the man was singlehandedly funding the Saville Row shop where he purchased his dress shirts. And it was truly a wonder he had any skin left on his palms after all the handwashing. 

Miles arrived at the precinct earlier than usual. It wasn’t long before the room was bustling with the rest of the investigating team as well as the uniformed and plain clothed officers who would be assisting with security. Chandler stood at the front of the room and called them to order.

“There is already a security team at the convent doing an initial sweep before the cardinal arrives,” he announced. “The nuns are being very accommodating in all of this, so do try to respect their space when we arrive.”

It had been a shock when they learned where the cardinal was scheduled to celebrate Mass that day. Tyburn Convent, of all the places. The logistics of securing a convent located just across the street from Hyde Park aside, they were playing directly into Haskins’ hands. It was the first time Miles could remember wholeheartedly agreeing with Buchan on anything when he’d said that there was no way Haskins could possibly resist the kind of scene that was being set. A Benedictine cardinal celebrating Mass on the anniversary of the execution of St. John Roberts, whose relics were set into the altar on which Mass would be offered. It was as if they were taunting the man.

For his part, Chandler had nearly hyperventilated when the secretary calmly informed him and Miles of the cardinal’s plans. Miles had had to finish the conversation with the poor girl and was nearly forced to lead his boss out of the chancery by the hand. It was only luck that they ran into Emma as they walked back to the lifts. Upon laying eyes on her, Chandler had immediately tried to shake off his oncoming panic attack.

“I take it you just found out,” she said. “I may run the Liturgy Office, but this was not my idea.”

“We knew you were smarter than that,” said Miles.

Emma sighed and crossed her arms over her chest.

“Too bad they don’t,” she muttered under her breath before clearing her throat and speaking up. “He won’t want to harm the nuns.”

“Pardon?” Chandler spoke at last.

“The nuns at the convent,” she clarified. “Perpetual adoration, daily prayer for priests – the nuns are doing the kind of work he thinks they should be. Haskins – er – Dearbourne…anyway, he won’t want to harm them.”

“Not even to get to the cardinal?” Miles asked.

“Collateral damage doesn’t seem to be his style,” Emma answered. “Not that this is my area of expertise, but I know priests like him.”

At their twin looks of shock, Emma hastened to explain.

“Not priests like him, per se, but ones who share his…ecclesiology,” she hedged. “Ones who think the Church today is not on track. That it’s succumbed to modernism. The nuns at the convent are not an example of that trend and for people like that, they see themselves as an endangered species to be protected.”

The conversation had served to take Chandler back from the cliff’s edge for a time. But it didn’t completely assuage his fears that they could end up witnessing a public execution in a week’s time.

They’d spent that week trying to convince the cardinal not to celebrate the Mass. There were phone calls. Many phone calls. In the end, the cardinal had simply told them that if God intended him to be a martyr, he would embrace it. Miles wasn’t sure Chandler wouldn’t kill the man before Haskins got the chance to.

Coordinating with the nuns had also proven difficult. They were a contemplative order who took vows of silence. One nun, a bizarrely boisterous middle aged woman named Mother Irmagardis, was given leave to work with them on security, while the rest stayed hidden and silent within the walls of the convent. It was not an ideal situation, but given their location and the very reason for their founding, the nuns were all too familiar with the history of the martyrs. Mother Irmagardis gave the police a solemn promise that they were taking the situation seriously. She also, as it happened, promised to pray for their work. 

The convent itself was made up of three walk up brick buildings looking south over Hyde Park, sandwiched between fashionable and expensive townhouses. The middle of the three was the most peculiar shade of orange, with metal letters affixed above the door identifying the building as the “TYBURN CONVENT.” A crucifix of at least eight feet dominated a high arched window of the chapel next door. Above the crucifix was a bas relief carving of the English martyrs, while beneath was affixed a green plaque that informed all who entered that “105 CATHOLIC MARTYRS LOST THEIR LIVES AT THE TYBURN GALLOWS NEAR THIS SITE.” 

Miles had never walked past the convent with much more than a cursory acknowledgement that it existed. In fact, the sergeant never had much cause to visit Hyde Park at all. It was about as far from his East London roots as it was possible to get; not that he didn’t know the area, of course. In another life, he could have been a London tour guide. Armed with his knowledge of the city, Miles was well aware of yet another plaque set into the traffic island toward which he was walking. He crossed the street, ostensibly to scan the perimeter of the park as he worked his way back toward the convent. He glanced down to find the small, circular plaque. It was a little worn around the edges, but the words were still clearly visible: “THE SITE OF TYBURN TREE.” For all that it commemorated, it was discrete, unassuming. Most simply walked over it without a second glance. Depending on how one stood, the mark in the middle of the plaque would look alternately like an ‘x’ marking the spot or a cross. 

Miles couldn’t claim to be as dedicated to his faith as his mother or grandmother had been and had tried, in vain, to instill in him. But as he stood on that plaque in the midst of the chaos of the traffic island, a sensation of grief washed over him. He took a moment of silence and crossed himself before trying to shake it off as he walked back to the convent. It was just the case getting to him. That was all.

It was probably just as well that Miles had not been at that very spot only ten minutes earlier. The fairly bored travel agent in the agency across the road was vaguely aware of the plaque. He’d stepped on it as often as not in his five years going to work at the agency. It was the first time in his memory, however, that he’d seen so much attention paid to the traffic island in so short a time. There was the occasional tourist, but the two men he’d seen stop there over the course of the morning had both looked to be praying over it. He shrugged and returned to his game of Solitaire on his computer.

Emma wasn’t there. Chandler wasn’t sure why he thought she should have been. In actual fact, he should have been pleased she wasn’t. She didn’t need to put herself in harm’s way. And yet, there it was: disappointment that she hadn’t come. 

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. It wasn’t disappointment that she wasn’t there, it was disappointment that he didn’t get to see her. It was a distinction with which he was not entirely pleased. Chandler had learned the hard way on more than one occasion that romantic entanglements did not end well. That he was even entertaining the notion of it with Emma drove him to distractions he could ill afford.

The ringing of a bell pulled him away from his thoughts and toward the door of the chapel. A young man holding a large crucifix led the procession, followed by two more holding a handles, and still a fourth, who was slowly swinging a thurible out of which poured sweetly scented smoke. The cardinal brought up the rear, miter upon his head and crosier in hand.

The nuns were not in sight. They occupied a space to the left of the altar that was inaccessible to the general public. A gate at the foot of the altar steps remained firmly closed, with only a small door open for the cardinal and his altar servers to get through to approach the altar.

Chandler couldn’t help but compare this Mass with the funeral he’d attended with Emma at the cathedral. While there was decidedly less pomp and circumstance here in this small, humbly appointed chapel, there was an otherworldliness he felt in this space that he’d not felt in Westminster, even in all of its marble and gold finery. It was an odd feeling, one that he could not readily explain. But he continued to poke at it, as one might a toothache, curious to make some sense of it. 

The congregation rising for the reading of the gospel startled him out of his thoughts, drawing him once more back into the present.

The cardinal finished reading and then kissed the pages of the book before raising it high above his head. He turned so that all in the chapel could see it and then placed it on the altar before moving back to the lectern.

“This anniversary has always been an important one for me,” he began. “And, of course, for the dedicated women who live out their vocation within these walls.”

Pausing, he cast his eyes over the assembled congregation before glancing back at the altar.

“But this year, our acknowledgement, our celebration of the martyrdom of John Roberts takes on a special significance. This year, we see martyrs all around us. We see, perhaps, even ourselves called to make that sacrifice. In a new way, we understand the fear that many felt during those times, when the mere practicing of their faith could result in their death. It is something that brings us into solidarity not only with our past, but also with our Christian brothers and sisters in the Middle East, who are suffering for their faith.”

There was, then, another pause and the quiet turn of a page.

“But fear cannot be the whole of it,” he continued. “Even in this time of Advent, of waiting and of preparation, we celebrate. This weekend we will observe Gaudete Sunday, when we will rejoice in the Lord! And it is so, too, that even in this time of fear, we will celebrate. Whatever he may have ordained for us, we will with joyful hearts turn ourselves toward the Lord.”

As the cardinal continued his sermon, Chandler heard the crackle of a radio and elevated voices in the corridor outside the chapel. He quietly stepped out to ask for an update from the uniformed – and armed – officer.

“They think they’ve located his van, sir,” said the officer. Then, speaking into the radio again, “Location?”

“Near the V and A,” came a voice over the line.

Chandler wordlessly held out his hand.

“Approach with caution and only if you are armed,” he spoke into the radio.

“What’s happened?” Miles asked, having followed Chandler out of the chapel.

“A van’s been found on the Brompton Road,” said Chandler. “Near the museum.”

Miles stood in thought for a moment before his eyebrows rose up his forehead.

“There’s a church there,” he said urgently. “Old one, Mass in Latin. He might be there.”

“Have a team sweep the church,” said Chandler once more into the radio. Then, as an afterthought, “He may be dressed like a priest.”

Chandler clapped a hand on Miles’ shoulder.

“You’re going to put Emma to shame,” he said, feeling as if they might be able to put an end to this two month long nightmare.

“Yeah, well, I’ll never be as pretty as her,” Miles joked in his gruff voice.

“Van’s empty,” the voice over the radio informed them. “Checking the church now.”

“Keep the van under observation,” Chandler told them. “Riley.”

“Sir,” Riley responded over the radio.

“You and Mansell get over to their location now.”

“On our way,” she answered. 

“And Riley,” Chandler added. “Be careful. He could be anywhere in your vicinity right now.”

“We will, sir,” Riley assured her boss.

Mansell and Riley had been trawling Hyde Park for the better part of the morning. It had been a decidedly lovely change to their normal working environment, Riley decided. If not for her partner ogling every woman who jogged past him.

“You’re such a fucking perv,” she said irritably as Mansell swiveled his head round to follow the course of a much younger woman running up the steps of the Albert Memorial.

“What?” Mansell answered defensively.

Riley scoffed at her partner and continued on her way, leaving him to catch up.

The pair made it to the unmarked police van parked in front of the Victoria & Albert Museum within ten minutes. Once inside, Riley radioed Chandler to let him know.

“Anything yet, lads?” Mansell asked the two plain clothed officers who had been stationed at the spot since Haskins’ van had been discovered.

“Nothin’,” one of them muttered, fiddling with the lens of the camera in his lap.

“He’s not in the church either,” the other chimed in, decidedly more eager.

“If he’s planning on getting to the cardinal in the convent, he’s gonna have to come back for his van,” Riley said to Mansell. “He couldn’t drag him through the park.”

“Unless he’s planning on just doing it there in front of everyone,” Mansell suggested darkly. “You heard what the boss said. That bird Emma –”

“Dr. Parker?”

Mansell glared at Riley before continuing.

“She said that this would be his big finale,” he continued. “Besides, he’s not stupid enough to park that right next to the convent. Huge white transit van right outside a place crawling with coppers? We’d have caught him by now if he was that thick.”

As uneventful as the hour was that followed, everyone who was aware of what could pass in that time had spent it with churning stomachs and white knuckles. Mansell and Reilly remained with the white van assumed to be Haskins’, while Miles, Chandler, and Kent kept the cardinal clearly within their field of vision. They were not going to allow another ersatz copper dismantle their security.

“Has there been any movement on the van?” Chandler asked through his radio once the Mass was over. He watched the cardinal closely as he mingled with the members of the public who had attended the Mass, all of whom had been thoroughly searched prior to being allowed to enter the chapel.

“No, sir,” came Riley’s voice from the radio speaker.

While disappointed that they’d not been able to neatly wrap up the case with an arrest, Chandler was hardly surprised. If Haskins had been in the area, it was likely he’d spotted the officers entering his vehicle. Still, that van would provide them with a vital source of evidence that did not have to come from another body in the morgue.

The team arrived back at their Whitechapel Incident Room feeling rather pleased with themselves. The SOCOs were combing for evidence in Haskins’ van while the cardinal – still alive and kicking – was safe at home under heavy guard. No, Haskins was not yet in their custody, but they were close. It was only a matter of time now. 

Chandler’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He retrieved it and smiled upon seeing Emma’s name come up on the screen.

“Emma,” he said warmly.

“Detective Inspector Chandler,” came a man’s voice.

Chandler’s blood froze. Before he could recover his breath, the man spoke again.

“Death is now the phoenix’ nest.”

With a click, the line went dead.


	10. 10 December, II

“Get Buchan up here now!” Chandler shouted at large to the room as he thrust his phone into Kent’s hands.  “Have them trace where the last incoming call was made from.”  
  
Kent turned on his heel and was out the door before even asking what was going on. 

“Boss –” 

“He has Emma,” Chandler told Miles in a thin voice, his breathing shallow.  “All he said was –” 

“Joe,” Buchan interrupted, trying to regain his own breath after running up two flights of stairs. 

Miles ignored the intrusion and continued trying to get information out of Chandler. 

“What did he say?” 

“Death is now the phoenix’ nest,” Chandler recited. 

“How do you know that means her?” Asked Miles. 

Chandler shook his head and ran a shaking hand through his hair. 

“He called from Emma’s phone,” said Chandler rather desperately.  He turned to Buchan.  “What does it mean?  Where is he taking her?” 

Buchan stood in silent thought for a moment. 

“The phoenix,” said Buchan in a slow voice, an index finger poised over his lips.  He took a breath but didn’t continue to speak. 

_“Ed,”_ Chandler implored him. 

“There’s a poem,” he said.  “Shakespeare.  It’s called ‘The Phoenix and the Turtle.’  Now, it’s not been proven, but there are some who believe that it was a kind of eulogy for the martyrs.  That he was a secret Catholic sympathizer.  The turtledove is said to be a priest and martyr and the phoenix represents Anne Line.” 

Again, Buchan went silent, his face screwed up in concentration.  Chandler was stooped over his computer, typing loudly.  He began to read aloud. 

“Let the priest in surplice white, that defunctive music can, be the death-divining swan, lest the requiem lack his right,” he read.  “And thou, treble-dated crow –” 

_“The crow!”_ Cried Buchan with a gasp.  “The crow is Henry Garnet.” 

Chandler’s head snapped up from his computer screen. 

“Anne Line is the connection, yes?” He asked urgently. 

“Well, yes, I suppose –” 

Chandler was out the door before Buchan could finish his sentence. 

“Mansell, find a parish or a monastery or _something_ that has to do with Anne Line.” 

“Yes, boss,” Mansell answered immediately, turning back toward his computer. 

Walking back to his office, Chandler turned to Buchan. 

“Who was Anne Line?” 

Chandler knew the information could prove fairly useless.  In the end, having the backstory of a woman who lived four centuries previous would do very little to help Emma.  But it gave him the illusion of progress. 

“She was from a Protestant family,” he began.  “As was her husband, Roger Line.  But not long after they were married, Roger was arrested at a banned Mass along with the priest and other who had attended the Mass.  The priest was executed in the manner of which we have recently been so vividly reminded.” 

Chandler saw Miles roll his eyes from where he stood in a darkened corner of the office. 

“Roger was eventually banished from England and had to live on a pension from the Spanish crown.  Anne was left in England, disinherited by her family, and pregnant with a child that would be taken from her and placed with her estranged relations.” 

“Hang on,” Miles cut in.  “How do you already know all this off the top of your head?  I’ve been a Catholic all my life and I’ve never heard of Saint Anne Line.” 

Buchan furrowed his eyebrows, but did not turn to face Miles. 

“We were paying a lot of attention to the priests,” he explained carefully.  “But we didn’t know if they would be the only ones he intended to kill.  I expanded my research.  Just in case.” 

Miles harrumphed from his corner.  Buchan turned to Chandler. 

“May I continue, Joe?” He said affectedly before continuing with an answer.  “At this point, Anne began working with the Jesuits at a safe house that served as a kind of weigh station for priests coming into England.  Henry Garnet praised her highly.” 

“From what I heard, Monsignor Garnet did the same of Emma,” Chandler murmured, the knot in his stomach tightening.  

“We’ll find her, sir,” Miles assured him.  It did not bear mentioning in what condition that would be. 

Buchan looked between the two men before finishing. 

“Anne Line was arrested on Candlemas, sentenced on Ash Wednesday, and executed by hanging two days later.” 

His last words hung heavily in the air. 

“Hanging?” Miles asked after a few moments of silence. 

“Hm?” Buchan responded. 

“Why did they only hang her?” Miles clarified. 

“Propriety,” Buchan explained.  “Drawing and quartering a woman in public would have been scandalous.” 

Miles scoffed derisively at the moral gymnastics that could justify the execution but still be concerned with the sensitivities of the crowd gathered to see her die. 

“Her body was retrieved in order to give her a proper burial.  It is suggested that her Requiem Mass is the setting for the poem that Haskins quoted to you.” 

Chandler looked back at his computer screen, scanning the stanzas for any sense of meaning.  He liked poetry more than the average man, he supposed, but interpreting it was not one of his strong suits. 

“Let the priest in surplice white,” he said again in a quiet voice.  He cleared his throat and turned to Buchan.  “Ed, where was the Requiem Mass held?” 

“Ah,” he said in an apologetic tone.  “That is not known.  Given the circumstances, it all had to occur in the strictest of secrecy.” 

“Sir, I’ve got it!” Mansell announced, bursting through Chandler’s office door.  “There’s a church in Woodford.” 

_“Woodford!”_ Chandler repeated.  “Miles!  We have to leave _now_!  Mansell, text Miles the address.” 

Miles could scarcely keep up with Chandler’s long strides as they ran to his car.  By the time he’d pressed the ignition button, Miles’ phone had beeped with the text from Mansell.  Once he had the address, Miles could have directed Chandler to the spot with no technological help.  Chandler, however, was far more optimistic about the traffic predicting capabilities of the up to the second geo-positioning offered on his phone than he was Miles’ insistence that he knew a shortcut.  With his phone offering the navigation, Miles spent the journey trying to keep Chandler from completely losing it. 

_“Move!”_ Chandler yelled, his voice sounding slightly hysterical, knuckles white from the force with which he was gripping the steering wheel.  Even with lights and sirens going, the Vauxhall in front of them seemed little inclined to give way.  The blare of Chandler’s horn and flashing his high beams finally alerted the clueless driver in front of them that he should pull over. 

Miles’ phone rang in the midst of an instruction to bear right to enter the motorway.  He answered on speaker. 

“Miles,” he said. 

“We sent a team to her office,” came Riley’s voice over the line.  “He’d tapped her landline.” 

Miles and Chandler shared a glance. 

“Good work, Riley,” said Chandler. 

“We’re making good time,” Miles told her.  “Make sure AFOs and an ambulance are en route.” 

“On it, Sarge,” she said before hanging up. 

“We’re on top of this one, boss,” said Miles.  “I can feel it in my gut.” 

Once on the dual carriageway of the A12, Chandler put his foot down, passing other vehicles at speeds that made even Miles clench. Nearly twenty minutes later, he tore down residential street before skidding to a stop in front of the unassuming church.  
The sight that greeted Chandler when he threw open the church doors nearly floored him.  Emma was hanging from the banister on the choir loft, her wrists and ankles bound.  The rope was tied off on the railing of the stairs that led up to the loft.  She struggled hopelessly against her bonds, succeeding only in hastening her eventual strangulation. 

Quickly recovering his senses, Chandler ran up the aisle toward the altar.  He watched as Emma stilled, nearly catching his foot on the first step to the altar as he rounded the front row of pews.  He grabbed the first free standing chair he could find and pulled it beneath her.  Moving to stand on the chair, he hoisted her onto his shoulder, Emma’s body limp and lifeless.  Chandler would have thought her dead, but for the hitching breath he felt her take. 

“Miles!” He shouted, his voice echoing off the walls of the dark church.  The octagonal shape of the building served only to intensify the echo. 

Hurried footsteps heralded the arrival of his sergeant.  Knife in hand, Miles stood on the edge of a pew and sawed through the rope.  The rest of Emma’s body weight collapsed onto Chandler’s shoulder as the last strand of the rope was severed.  Though his knees buckled slightly as he stepped down from the chair, he recovered quickly and turned to get Emma out of the church.  

He was stopped in his tracks by the sight of a man silhouetted in the orange street lights that filtered in through the windows flanking the doors.  As Chandler got closer, he caught the glint of light on the gun in the man’s hand. 

“It shouldn’t be done like this,” the man said, his American accent plainly evident.  It was Haskins. 

“It doesn’t have to be done at all,” Chandler insisted.  With his eyes adjusted to the dark, he saw that Haskins was wearing a cassock. 

“Their betrayal has _wounded_ the Church,” was his impassioned response.  He raised his gun to shoulder level, aiming directly at Chandler.  “Put her down.” 

“Now, Robert –” Chandler began in a placating tone. 

Something in Haskins snapped. 

_“Father!”_ He very nearly screamed at Chandler.  “I am a priest of Jesus Christ and I _will_ be addressed as is proper to my office!” 

Chandler had nearly called him Luke.  It was just as well that he hadn’t, given the man’s response. 

“You’re right, of course, Father,” Chandler responded quickly.  His back was beginning to feel the strain of Emma’s dead weight. 

“Put.  Her.  Down.”

Haskins punctuated his words with several jabs of his gun toward the ground.  Knowing that he had no chance of trying to evade the man, Chandler acquiesced to the mad priest’s request.  He lowered himself to the ground and laid Emma out, careful not to let her head hit the hard marble floor.  She was breathing, but it was labored and shallow, and she remained unconscious.  Bright purple bruises were already beginning to bloom around the angry red welts left on her throat by the rope. 

_“Up,”_ Haskins demanded, his gun still trained on Chandler. 

Holding his hands up in surrender, Chandler stood.  His attention torn between the gun in Haskins’ hand and Emma’s prone form, he found himself struggling to find the right words to say to the man. 

“She thinks I have no right to do this,” said Haskins, glancing down at Emma. 

“Murder is –” Even as the words left his mouth, Chandler knew it was not the right thing to say. 

“It isn’t _murder_ ,” he growled at Chandler.  “This is my duty.  My calling.  The Church must be purified.” 

“But what has she done to sully it?” Chandler asked, wondering if it was at all advisable to challenge the man’s delusions.  “You heard her, she agrees with you.” 

“She thinks there is a place for everyone in the Church,” Haskins said with a sneer.  “That sodomites and abortionists are welcome in the Lord’s house.” 

Chandler saw Miles edging along the wall before Haskins did.  He wanted to stop him, but Emma stirring on the floor drew both his and Haskins’ attention.  

Then everything seemed to happen all at once. Just as she was trying to sit up, Haskins lunged at her.  Miles immediately threw himself on top of the priest as Chandler tried to shift his body in front of Emma.  

The gunshot was deafening in the cavernous space.  Miles was on the floor, hands pressed tightly to his stomach.  Blood was streaming out onto the floor.  

Haskins again made for Emma, but Chandler was too quick for him.  A well-aimed kick to the side of the man’s head knocked him out.  The gun clattered across the marble floor, coming to a stop under a pew. 

_“Miles,”_ Chandler said urgently, kneeling beside him.  Miles was still conscious, but clearly in agony.  He stared down at him, freshly recalling the last time this had happened.  How many times could they get lucky? 

Emma was by his side then, pressing her shaking hands to Miles’ stomach, trying to help stop the bleeding.  

“Go get help,” said Emma in a strained voice, snapping Chandler out of his memories. 

Chandler nodded at her and was on his feet, bounding toward the door.  Before he reached it, it was flung open as armed police officers flooded into the church. 

“We need an ambulance!” He shouted at them.  One nodded and ran back outside, while the others continued to sweep around the church. 

Emma’s startled shout turned Chandler’s blood to ice.  He whirled around to find Haskins hauling her to her feet.  Her hands, slick with blood, scrabbled madly and uselessly at his arm.  In the other hand, he trained the gun on her temple.  A thick stream of blood oozed down Haskins’ forehead, he blinked rapidly as it tracked its way over his right eye. 

“You did this,” Haskins told Chandler, pointing the gun at him for good measure.  “This is your fault.” 

Emma’s wide eyes locked with Chandler’s.  Her head shook imperceptibly.  Terrified though she was, Emma still tried to convince Chandler that Haskins was just trying to taunt him. 

“I heard you,” said Haskins as he began to move back up the aisle toward the altar.  He dragged Emma along with him.  

The armed officers tracked the pair’s movement with their rifles.  Chandler glanced at them nervously.  He was the ranking officer on scene and so was nominally in charge of the situation.  However, if Haskins moved to shoot either Emma or him, they would open fire regardless of what he told them. 

Miles wheezed in the tense silence.  Chandler forced himself not to turn around to check on him.  He could not take his eyes off of Haskins and Emma. 

“You were the one who brought her into this,” Haskins continued to bait Chandler. 

Emma stumbled as Haskins began to ascend the steps to the altar.  His grip tightened around her neck and she choked as he pulled her up.  

“This is over, Father,” Chandler said.  “You will walk away from here in cuffs.” 

“More will come after me,” he said with the kind of self-assurance that only mentally disturbed are capable of.  “The work is far from over.” 

Haskins had rounded the altar.  The marble slab was all that separated Haskins from Chandler.  A sudden crash from the entrance startled them.  Chandler dropped to the ground as Haskins extended his arm to shoot at the paramedics who had just entered the church, unaware that the scene had not yet been secured. 

_“No!”_ He shouted, standing back up with his hands raised.  But he was too late.  Someone had fired their weapon, the shot still echoing around the church at a deafening volume. 

Chandler whirled around, ears ringing, his heart in his throat, to find Emma struggling to get out from underneath the slumped, dead weight of Haskins.  She finally extricated herself and stared, dazed, at the body bent over the altar.  The man’s blood pooled on the marble and began to stream over the side of the altar onto the floor below. 

“It’s all over me,” she said in a strained, panicked voice.  She was covered in Haskins’ blood and brain matter.  

Chandler could see her start to shake as the reality of it all began to set in.  He caught a glimpse of her wide eyes as she stared wildly around the church. 

“I – I killed him.  It’s my fault.” 

Emma dropped the gun on the altar with a clatter and promptly fainted.


	11. 24 December

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is something of an epilogue, rather than a last chapter. I've really enjoyed writing this story these last four years (who knew 11 chapters could take four years to write?). Anyway, I hope you enjoy this and please leave a review letting me know your thoughts.

Emma sat on the back of the ambulance, the silver emergency blanket she held about her shoulders crinkled as she shifted.  The paramedic shined a small penlight into her eyes, asking her to look left and right.  She did so without thought. 

Well, that wasn’t entirely true.  Emma had only one thought going through her mind.  She had killed someone.  It didn’t matter what he’d done or what he’d planned to do, his death had come at her hands.  She wanted to speak with Chandler, but he was – understandably – preoccupied with the condition of his sergeant.

Running a hand through her hair, she nearly vomited as she encountered a tangled patch of dried blood and brain matter.  Quickly withdrawing her hand, she wiped it on her trousers.  The shaking began to set in for a second time.

“Deep breaths,” the paramedic instructed her.  Easy for him to say.  He didn’t have someone else’s brain splattered all over his face and hair.  She couldn’t control her gag reflex this time and catapulted herself to a standing position before keeling over and vomiting on the ground.  As it was her third time vomiting that evening, she had little left in her stomach.  It clenched painfully as she heaved.  The acrid taste of bile overwhelmed her senses. 

It was five minutes before she could breathe evenly again.  Emma wiped the back of her hand across her mouth, smearing together vomit, tears, and mucus.  A towel was thrust into her hand.  Gratefully, she mumbled a response and wiped her face properly.  She raised her head, hair matted to the side of her face and mascara running down her cheeks, to come eye to eye with Joseph Chandler.

“Oh.”

“How – how are you?” He asked, the grimace on his face clearly showing that he knew it was a stupid question.

She shrugged, her mouth opening and closing as she struggled to find an answer.

“You should sit,” he said, already gently guiding her back to the ambulance.  “Has someone taken your statement already?”

“Yes,” she croaked, her throat dry and strained.  She coughed and clenched her teeth through the pain.

“Water,” Chandler demanded of the paramedic.  A bottle was swiftly placed in his outstretched palm.  He screwed off the cap and handed it to Emma, who accepted it gratefully. 

“One of the uniformed officers spoke to me already,” she said through greedy gulps of water.  She was past caring that it was running down her face and splashing onto her sweater, though she dabbed at her face with the towel.

“CPS will be given all the evidence, but this is all more of a formality,” Chandler explained.

“C…CPS?” Emma asked, startled and trying not to choke on her water.

“Crown Prosecution –”

_“I know what it is,”_ Emma interrupted rather more harshly than she’d intended.  “Sorry.  I just…I didn’t know this would go that far.  Not that –”

She blew out a long breath, ignoring the pain it caused in her throat.

“Not that I feel completely at peace with what’s happened…with what _I_ did.  But I wasn’t aware of the…the procedure,” she finished at last.

“You have a room full of officers who will attest to the events, not to mention your own injuries,” Chandler assured her.  “As I said, it’s a formality.  You were protecting yourself.”

“I don’t suppose anyone is going to remember that you said ‘no’ just before I got his gun?”

Chandler shook his head.

“I didn’t – it wasn’t meant like that,” he said.  “I thought one of the officers had fired.”

“It wasn’t self-defense,” she said quietly.

“Pardon?” Chandler’s voice dropped about two octaves.

“He was going to shoot the paramedics,” Emma told him.  “I wasn’t defending myself.”

Chandler slowly let out a breath.

“At that moment, but he had the gun against your head and he already tried to kill you once this evening.  Stands to reason he’d try to do it again.”

Emma shrugged again.

“Let us hope that the Crown Prosecution Service sees it the same way.”

 

* * *

 

“Have you spoken to her?” Miles asked, his normally gruff voice made all the more textured by the pain he was in.

“Not as such,” Chandler said stiffly.

Miles laughed, then grimaced and gripped his stomach. 

“My gut can’t keep saving your ass,” he grunted.  He dropped his head back on the pillow with a sharp breath.  “What does that even mean?”

“I haven’t spoken with her, alright?” He just short of whined, sounding very much like one of Miles’ children when they finally cop to doing exactly what they said they hadn’t done.

“CPS pursuing any charges?”

The hole in his gut be damned, if they decided to prosecute Emma for the death of Haskins, Miles was going to march over the Southwark Bridge himself and put a stop to it.

“No,” Chandler assured him.

“You should ring her.”

_“No,” Chandler repeated, far more emphatic this time._

“Why not?  Case is closed, she’s got no charges comin’ her way,” Miles argued.

Chandler crossed his arms over his chest before uncrossing them, fixing his cuffs, and then crossing them again.  He’d hit quite the nerve with his boss.

“It isn’t a good time,” Chandler countered.

Miles snorted.

“When is it ever?” Miles retorted before grabbing his stomach.  He was getting himself a little too worked up.  “I’d never married Judy if I’d kept waiting for the right time.  The right time is any time you make it.”

“M-marriage is not what we’re – I’m not – just…butt out, Miles!” Chandler all but shouted.

Miles feigned looking hurt.

“You would yell at your sergeant while he’s on his death bed?” He asked as sweetly as was possible with a voice that sounded like he’d gargled with gravel.

“It’s not your deathbed,” Chandler said with a sigh, looking guilty all the same.

“You don’t have to ask her out,” Miles plowed on, though more gently than before.  “Just don’t walk away from her.”

Chandler looked at Miles skeptically.  He took a breath and looked to be about to say something, but he closed his mouth before any words came.  His phone rang.

“DI Chandler,” he answered, his professional tone returning.

There was a moment of silence as Chandler listened to the other end of the line.

“I’m on my way,” he said at last before ending the call.  “We’ve got a fresh one.”

Miles understood.  He nodded and shooed Chandler out of the room.  As soon as he was gone, he picked up his phone.  One quick Google search and he put the phone to his ear.

“Archdiocese of Westminster, how may I direct your call?” Came the voice over the line.

 

* * *

 

_'I should have called her sooner,’_ was Miles’ first thought as he savored the contraband chips she’d snuck in for him.

Unlike Chandler, Emma had been ready and willing to indulge in his request for real food.  He’d probably pay for it later, if his last experience with a stomach wound was anything to go by, but it was worth it.  He shook more vinegar onto his chips.

“I meant to call,” Emma said as she seated herself in the chair next to Miles’ bed.  “I wanted to make sure you were alright.  And then everything with the CPS happened and work with Christmas coming and…I - I didn’t.  I feel terrible about that.  You saved my life.”

Miles held up a greasy hand.  He swallowed the bite he’d just taken before speaking.

“I’m not hearin’ any of it,” he said with finality.  “You had a shock.”

Emma looked fit to argue the point, but let it pass.

“Will they let you out before Christmas, you think?” She asked, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.

“Doubt it,” was his short response.  It was a sore spot.  He ate another chip.

“I’m sorry.”

“Only one needs to be sorry about it is Haskins and I’m pretty sure he’s feelin’ sorry right now,” Miles said pitilessly.

Emma grimaced.  She knew he had every right to feel the way he did about the man, but she was the one who had killed him.  It had been _her_ hand that had ended a man’s life.  Her stomach churned as she began to relive the moment again.

“Eat a chip,” Miles said, shoving the bag in her face, knowing the sharp tang of the vinegar would help to clear her mind.

She gave him a forced smile and raised a slender hand to pluck a chip out of the wrappings.

“Have you…have you seen Joe?” She asked, very poorly affecting disinterest.

“Have _you_?” He responded pointedly.

She frowned.

“No,” came her somewhat petulant response.

“Whose fault is that?” Miles continued to push.

She glanced up at him, surprised at the familiarity with which he spoke to her.  She’d not dealt much with the man, but something about him was comforting.  He spoke plainly and honestly, if somewhat brutally at times.  It was a far cry from the men she normally dealt with; all politics and façade.  Of course, Monsignor Garnet hadn’t been like that.  Tears pricked her eyes at the thought of him, but she pushed the feeling away.  He’d be livid with her for feeling so sorry for herself.

“Half of it is fully mine,” Emma said at last, her chin up.

“Good girl,” Miles said fondly before shoving the last three chips in his mouth as he heard his doctor speaking to a nurse just outside the door.  Emma rushed around his bed grabbing the empty vinegar packets and chip bag.  She had managed to shove all the incriminating evidence into the bottom of her purse just as the doctor walked into the room.  They shared a look, both clearly trying not to laugh.

“I’ll just be going,” Emma said awkwardly as she slung her purse over her shoulder.

Miles gestured for her to come closer to him.

“Don’t let him walk away,” were his parting words.

 

* * *

 

The three blinking dots letting him know that she was busy typing caused something to clench painfully in his chest.  He scrolled up to read over their conversation.  Her Christmas well wishes were more welcome than he could say.  He looked away, putting the phone face down next to him on the sofa.  The noise alerting him to the arrival of a new text message sounded overly loud in the absolute silence that reigned in his flat.

He stared at his phone’s screen, the light shining blue on his face in the darkened room.  Would he like to join her for a Christmas Eve trip to the pub?  Of course he would.  But he couldn’t.  The women around him – they all seemed to suffer, in one way or another.  Chandler could keep them safe by keeping his distance.  Some would say he was just playing the martyr.  But this was simply the way things were, the way things had to be.  Whitechapel had seen enough martyrs.


End file.
